


Caught Redhanded

by A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites)



Series: Fullmetal Alchemist Tumblr Events [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Eventual Personal Growth, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fraternization Regulations, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Mild Sexual Content, Office Romance, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Humor, Shameless Philanderer, Team Dynamics, Team Mustang Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife
Summary: Depending on who was asked, Jean Havoc was either extraordinarily successful or remarkably shallow when it came to the fairer sex.  Being a firm believer in the former, he had no problem with his reputation, only lingering questions of how to proceed when a relationship grew stale before its natural conclusion.  A scandalous purchase, he believed, would warm the cockles of his latest conquest's heart and, in turn, his bedsheets.  He didn't expect to catch his straightlaced coworker redhanded in the lingerie section of the nearest department store.  But then, at the end of the day, aren't we all fools in love?Written for Team Mustang Week 2018





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/gifts).



> I've come to the conclusion that if I start apologizing for this, I won't stop.
> 
> Did you ever have a terrible, bizarre idea that just wouldn't leave you alone? I did. Did you ever have a friend who encouraged you to see where the bad idea would take you, perhaps even suggested that the fandom could use some off-the-wall levity? Yep.
> 
> This is a result. Beta'd and nurtured by [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos), hence the dedication. May the fandom forgive us.

* * *

  _Redhanded - In modern times, this term refers to catching someone in the act of doing something they aren't supposed to do._

_-[Urban Dictionary](https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=red%20handed)_

* * *

 

Jean Havoc knew his worth.  He was a blunt instrument through and through.

A man of twenty-eight with broad shoulders, muscular build and a keen eye for common sense solutions, Jean considered himself a reformed country boy.  And though he honestly thought he didn’t deserve it, Havoc was also a second lieutenant in the Amestrian Military under the command of the Hero of Ishval. Practical to a fault, he had every intention of keeping his wagon professionally hitched to Roy Mustang until that train burst into flames.

But when it came to matters of the heart, his blunt nature was unflinching. Depending on who was asked, Jean Havoc was either extraordinarily successful or remarkably shallow when it came to the fairer sex.  Being a firm believer in the former, he had no problem with his reputation. In fact, he got exactly what he wanted out of each fling, whether it took three dates or simple rendezvous.

That is, unless she was already taken in by the man, the myth and the legend of his boss, Roy Mustang, and let it never be said that the Flame Alchemist didn’t get around.  And around.  And around.  Dates with The Colonel were about as catching as the common cold.     

Nevertheless, between his chiseled jaw and more-than-respectable arm muscles, Jean made the most of the opportunities that presented themselves.  This particular opportunity was Marisa, a strawberry-blond with dark green eyes that reminded Jean of the murky fishing pond near his hometown.  She was sweet, sultry and laughed too loudly at his jokes, almost everything Havoc said he wanted, wrapped in a tight little pencil skirt.

But after their second date, Marisa’s laugh sounded hollow, and the green of her eyes began to remind him of underseasoned cafeteria kale.  Truth be told, if it wasn’t a third date, the most infamous make or break number, Jean might have thrown in the towel and called it a loss.  After all, meeting girls was the easy part; keeping them around was harder.  Much harder.

So, true to form, Havoc tightened his bootstraps and did the only thing a mildly-invested man could do; he decided to buy something for her.

Shedding his uniform in favor of a baggy hoodie and a worn bomber jacket, the second lieutenant went in search of a quick, no-fail solution to his intimacy problem with his credit card at the ready.  Flowers were expected, and chocolates would have been wasted.  Besides, Jean couldn’t help but remember the lovely little detail Marisa had whispered in his unsuspecting ear during their first encounter in the low light of the local bar.  And really, he rationalized, why else would she have planted the idea in his head?

With quick, silent steps and a hood obscuring his stubble beset chin, Jean headed to the very back of the women’s section inside Cole’s and cast a shifty gaze across yards of barely-there fabric.  There were pieces in every color he could imagine, in every shape he could imagine, and though Havoc wasn’t usually one to brag too loudly, he could imagine a lot.  Sweat collected almost instantaneously on his palms as he approached a table exhibiting stacks of lacy black panties that appeared more string than solid.  Nearby, a bedazzled bra strung together by little more than fishing line winked at him from inside a display case.

Jean averted his eyes and stared down at the mess of frilly, skin-baring articles of clothing laid out before him.  He stopped short of touching the delicate material, unable to shake the uneasy feeling in his stomach.  When on a woman, he instinctively knew what to do with such things:  Take it off, worshiping every inch of exposed skin along the way.  On the table set up for perusal and purchase, Havoc was nothing short of bamboozled.  How was he supposed to know how small was too small or which skimpy side was the front?  A glance at the price cemented this endeavor as a mistake.

He didn’t know Marisa’s size or taste, and he wasn’t prepared to spend a quarter of his paycheck on something so negligible.  In fact, Jean didn’t know the first thing about women’s lingerie, and he would have retreated, tail between his legs with one hand reaching for a cigarette, to another section as his fast as his legs could carry him if he hadn’t heard a familiar voice sing out from the far right of the section.  Flustered, in nearly every sense of the word, Havoc ducked behind a set of three mannequins.  He shielded his thick frame with their unrealistically slender yet buxom bodies as best he could and covertly gawked at the sight before him.

Jean looked once, twice and pinched himself for good measure, but the scene before him remained unchanged.  Even with her fair hair hanging down her back and a pair of thick-framed glasses, there was no mistaking the woman asking the sales associate a question.  It was Lieutenant Hawkeye, and in her hands, she held a streamlined satin lingerie set.  The incongruity boggled Havoc’s mind.  What was his high-strung comrade doing in a place like this, and why was she holding that?

Woman though she was, Hawkeye was too practical to wear something as superfluous as lingerie.  Right?  This type of garment, even the simple piece she was holding, was not the kind of underthing a woman wore underneath a soldier’s uniform.  Neither was it the type of intimate to wear just because it was Tuesday.  Surely, his eyes were playing tricks on him.  Certainly, there was a more reasonable explanation for the sight before him.  

Hawkeye had gotten lost on her way to the sporting goods section.  Or maybe she, like him, was academically curious about which side was the front.  Perhaps Riza had a twin.  All more likely possibilities, he decided.  Jean listened in to confirm his suspicion, but Riza’s articulate alto voice brought him little comfort.

“Would you like to see the set in another color, ma’am?” the sales associate asked.  “Or maybe another style altogether, something with more detail?”

“It’s not the style,” Riza responded.  “Any more would be too much for me.  But yes, the color.  Do you have something with a purple undertone, a little more crimson?”

“Maybe,” the associate answered thoughtfully.  “We’ve got some new stock coming in next week.  Do you have time or are you looking to purchase something sooner?”

“I want something new to wear this weekend,” Riza stated, and Havoc could swear he heard a smile play across her lips.  “Do you have any push up bras in black or nude?”

The second lieutenant could have keeled over on the spot.  Cause of death:  shock and awe.  It wasn’t enough that Lieutenant Hawkeye had a life outside the confines of Eastern Command or that she was buying underwear.  Even Jean’s sister bought underwear and had a life, he supposed.  But if he ever caught Chloe purchasing red lingerie (in any shade), there would be questions, answers and swift but efficient justice, courtesy of his fist.

On that sobering note, Jean fled the scene, hoping to leave behind the memory of Riza and her scarlet panties and push up bra.  But doubt followed him to his apartment like a vigilant bodyguard.  By the time he turned in for bed and began his tossing and turning, the only forgotten thing was his grand plan to woo Marisa.  Over the next few days, Havoc even forgot to nail down the specifics of their third date; he didn’t call her, and Marisa never bothered to follow up.

Riza remained at the forefront of his thoughts during his cigarette breaks at work the next day, and if he was being honest with himself, she’d nearly caught him staring at her more than once while they worked.  Up until that fateful moment in the lingerie section of Cole’s Department Store, Hawkeye was a first lieutenant, as straight-laced as they come with a knack for paperwork pushing.  Stray recollections flew past Jean with frightening speed.  

Embarrassingly, he noted that his thoughts resembled more of an official profile in a briefing rather than a stream of consciousness.  Jean could list the things he knew about her on one hand, give or take a finger.  As with any soldier, five wasn’t a guaranteed number of digits.

One, Riza was an excellent shot who served with distinction in Ishval, but he’d rarely heard her utter a word about her time spent under the stifling desert sun.  Two, her closest friend was Rebecca Catalina.  The pair was known to spend some quality time at the local gun range, shooting the shit as well as some targets.

Three, Havoc thought Hawkeye was smart.  Not in the same way as Falman, but she was indeed more intelligent than he; never one to suffer a fool, save Mustang.  And four, that’s because she and The Colonel go way back.  No one knew how far though, because neither Riza nor her superior spoke about anything past their time at Eastern Command.  Even after a few drinks, Mustang’s lips remain sealed.

Suddenly, the four things Havoc knew about Hawkeye seemed insufficient.  Maybe she was more than the uniform she wore so well. Maybe he didn’t know the first lieutenant at all.  Perhaps, he should change that.

Havoc’s first instinct was to ask The Colonel about the inner workings of his faithful subordinate.  What kind of music did she like?  Hayate aside, did she consider herself a dog or cat person?  As a long time acquaintance, Mustang would know the answer even if Hawkeye was just a friend.  But something about simply asking his boss felt wrong.  No, Jean would have to do the legwork himself, and lucky him, what lovely legs Riza had.  

Jean smirked and chuckled under his breath as he began concocting a plan.  After one last drag, he snuffed the small butt of his cigarette on the metal railing of the fire escape and flung open the metal door to Eastern Command’s cafeteria. The telltale smell of tobacco smoke clung to his otherwise pristine uniform as he crossed the room, moving with wide strides toward his comrades in blue.  Falman, Fuery and Breda didn't have the wealth of insider information The Colonel possessed but they each had their strong suits.  And though Jean was confident in his wooing abilities, he wouldn't deny that when it came to a woman like Hawkeye - Riza - he might even be out of his league.


	2. Chapter 2

East City Headquarters’ cafeteria was nothing special; least of all when the mac and cheese, the one decent thing they served, ran out before Havoc got a chance to snag some.  Of course, Jean hadn’t intended to spend half his lunch break smoking.  He just had a lot on his mind.  Besides, what else were friends for if not sharing a meal from time to time?

Taking his place at their usual table, Jean slid into the cafeteria chair next to Breda and planted his elbows firmly on the table in front of him.  He openly eyed the other three men’s food.  With an air of hard-earned experience, Heymans brought his forearm to rest on the table between his immaculately homemade sandwich and Jean’s growling stomach.  Havoc turned on the junior member of their small pack and his sizeable portion of mac and cheese.

“You gonna eat that?” the second lieutenant asked, throwing Fuery an expectant grin.

“Leave the kid be,” Breda cut in, eyes fixed on his own meal.  “If you wanted the good stuff, you should have been here 20 minutes ago instead of smoking like a chimney out there.  You reek, man.”

“Cigarettes are an appetite suppressant.  I’m watching my figure,” Havoc retorted, head turned to face Breda.  He glanced at Heymans' bulging stomach.  “You should try it sometime and hand over half of that sandwich.”

“And which one of your bimbos fed you that line?” Heymans brazenly responded.  “Did you eat her mac and cheese too?  Better watch out for that mouth of yours; I’m not driving you to get shots when you contract something contagious again.”

 A beat of silence settled over the table as all eyes were drawn to Jean.  Fuery choked back a gulp of his midday soda, and Falman noticeably shifted farther away from Havoc.  The shit eating grin on Breda’s face spoke volumes as he chomped down a piece of quartered pickle.

“Heymans,” Jean grumbled, eyes shifting frantically from side to side.  “That was one time back at the academy, and it was a false alarm just so everyone at the table is clear.”

“If you are watching your figure, Lieutenant,” Falman interjected after cleared his throat in a thinly-veiled attempt to guide the lunchroom conversation away from Havoc’s academy escapades, “macaroni and cheese is not a wise decision.  It’s high in fat and a poor source of fiber unless-”

“Thanks, Falman,” Jean interrupted, “but I really don’t care about my figure.  Just saying that to get little Miss Braidykins here off my back.”  Breda rolled his eyes as Havoc turned back to Fuery with what he hoped was a winning smile coupled with irresistible puppy dog eyes.  “What do you say, Fuery?”

 “I don’t mind,” Fuery finally responded through good-natured laughter.  His trademark bespeckled grin remained intact as he quickly handed Jean a small plate of pasta doused in ooey gooey cheese sauce.  “I think I lost my appetite when Lieutenant Breda mentioned your false alarm.”

“Kid, you got no idea,” Breda quipped.  He tossed a knowing look at the young Master Sergeant’s direction before returning his attention to his club sandwich.  Falman quietly groaned at the unpleasant topic’s sudden resurgence.

Jean took his small victory, tossing a word of thanks in Fuery’s direction.  He tucked into the small plate of carbohydrates and chewed thoughtfully as a comfortable silence settled between the four coworkers.  The buff second lieutenant’s thoughts meandered back to Hawkeye and the red lingerie from the night before.  After a slight detour in the gutter, Jean cleared his throat and chanced his next thought aloud.

“Speaking of people who watch their figure, Hawkeye is looking nice these days.  You guys know if she’s doing anything different?  Yoga, kickboxing or something like that?”

“Really Jean?”  Heymans’ head turned slowly to peer at him with a look halfway between disappointment and exasperation.

“The Lieutenant is a trained sniper with 59 confirmed kills in Ishval.  She’s an exemplary officer who consistently earned proficient marks on her written and physical academy examinations.” Vato rattled off these facts as if reading from a book.

 “So that’s why they call her the Hawk’s Eye,” Havoc said sarcastically.  “No shit, Falman.  Everyone knows she’s handy with a rifle.  I’m talking about personally.  Like her favorite activity, favorite food or better yet, favorite drink.  That kind of stuff.  Details like that have to be floating around somewhere in that big brain of yours.”

“While I expect she strives to maintain peak physical and mental form through a myriad of challenging activities, I can’t imagine how her interests are an appropriate topic.  Such observations are not proper within our professional setting.”

“Oh come on Falman!”  Obviously crestfallen, Havoc leaned back in his chair.  “You can’t tell me you’ve never wondered about Hawkeye or wanted to get to know her better, be able to strike up some interesting conversation during slow times in the office.”

“Lieutenant Hawkeye has always been nice to me,” Fuery piped up.  “She made me feel welcome when I first moved here, and I check on Black Hayate when she’s out of town if Lieutenant Catalina’s too busy to come by her apartment.”

“So you go to her apartment,” Jean asked hopefully.  “What kind of stuff does she have there?  Records, lots of cookware, interesting swings hanging from the ceiling in the bedroom?”

Fuery blushed crimson and stuttered when he finally found his voice beneath the deep hue of his cheeks.  “I don’t really pay attention to her stuff, Jean,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck nervously.  “Hayate meets me by the door.  I guess the only unusual thing is that there are lots of packed boxes even though she’s had the same place for a while… And flowers,” Fuery added with a small smile.  “Sometimes she has a vase of flowers on the kitchen window sill.  Does that help?”

Havoc shrugged his shoulders.  Really, what kind of woman didn’t like flowers, but then again it could mean that she’s dating someone.  Someone who liked to send her flowers.  The need for more investigation became urgent.

“Do you think she’s seeing anyone?”

A tense hush descended upon the group of four.  Even the mild-mannered Fuery gave Jean a confused look, eyebrows furrowed with concern.  Breda swallowed the last bit of his club sandwich and shut the lid of his lunchbox with a sigh.  Falman seemed suddenly entranced by his own fingernails.

“Do I got something on my face?”

“Looks like breaks over.  Better get back to the office,” Breda interjected without a glance at the clock.  He directed his next statement at Falman and Fuery.  “You two get going.  Havoc and I will catch up.”  The two officers wasted no time in fleeing the scene.

“Was it something I said?” Jean asked Heymans once their coworkers were just outside of earshot.  He tossed his macaroni and cheese plate in the bin of a passing busboy and thanked him with a smile.

“So you’re interested in Hawkeye now?  That’s a bad idea, Havoc.  One of your worst, and believe me, I’ve seen some bad ones.”  The rotund second lieutenant rose from the lunch table and pushed in his chair, motioning for his friend to follow at a leisurely pace.

Havoc scoffed but joined him, trailing alongside Breda as they sauntered through the emptying cafeteria.  “So what if I am?” he shrugged defensively.  “Is it so hard to believe that she might want someone like me?”

“Listen, pal, if you can’t read the room, I’m not going to spell it out for you, and that’s not even considering the frat regs.”  Breda exhaled with frustration.  His eyes pleaded with the aged popcorn ceiling for the intercession of a higher power.

“But if you really want to know more about Hawkeye, don’t ask us.  Falman’s too uptight.  Fuery, well, I think he bats for the other team, and sorry to say, Hawkeye doesn’t give away much.”

Heymans paused.  He marveled as if he couldn’t believe the following words were actually coming from his mouth.  “However, if you are bound, damned and determined to do this, you should talk to Lieutenant Catalina.  If anyone knows the answer to these inane questions, it’s her, and she just might be able to straighten you out.”

Havoc smirked.  “I’m as straight as they come, Heymans, but talking up her best friend, not a bad idea, my friend.  Not bad at all.  I’ll have Catalina eating out of the palm of my hand while she plans our first date.”

Breda started to point out that, like Hawkeye, Rebecca Catalina was neither a shrinking violet nor an easy target.  Smart and strong, Catalina was a fair markswoman (not as gifted as Hawkeye but deadly in her own right), and her combat abilities rivaled Havoc’s.  What’s more, she worked closely with General Grumman.  All in all, Havoc’s plan sounded less like a good way to get laid and more like a guaranteed court martial.

Still, Breda closed his mouth as soon as he opened it and pivoted.  When the second lieutenant finally spoke, his tone was cordial, perhaps even jovial.  “You let me know how that works out for you, Jean.”

Havoc needed a good, old fashioned rejection to keep his philandering ways in check, Heymans decided, and if he wanted to face the firing squad that was the wrath of either Hawkeye or Catalina, Breda wouldn’t stand in his way.  In fact, he might sell tickets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. As always, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me an ask, a prompt or even an anon nasty message if that floats your boat. I take full responsibility for this terrible idea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I was supposed to work on another chapter of [Carry That Weight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772886/chapters/31655796) this week, but it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I worked on this little slice of silliness and baked some glorious chocolate chip cookies. Special thank to [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos%22) for being a wonderful beta as well as a my moral support and a bomb reviewer. No pressure though. :D
> 
> And on that note, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Happy reading!

Jean thought it was nothing short of kismet that Second Lieutenant Catalina’s schedule perfectly aligned with his that fateful Thursday.  Divining his opening had been as easy as chatting up General Grumman’s elderly secretary, Gertrude. In hushed tones, the positively ancient lady spilled every last non-confidential detail of Rebecca’s past with the telephone receiver in one hand and the Second Lieutenant’s personnel file in the other.  The older woman liked to gossip, and Havoc enjoyed flirting for the sake of doing so. Therefore, the arrangement was damn near perfect, even if it was a violation of the ACMJ art. 134(4) as Falman had so often reminded Havoc.

“But wait until you hear this.  There’s some big to-do at Central Command,” Gertrude hissed.  “The General is sending Colonel Mustang to assist at the Führer’s request on Monday.  A former state alchemist went rogue, was arrested and escaped. Führer Bradley wants the Flame Alchemist on hand to hunt him down, but if you’d ask me, East City’s safer with him here.”

“It’s not nice to toy with a guy’s feelings, Trudy,” Havoc purred, much to Breda’s chagrin.  “How will I sleep at night if I know my best girl’s all alone and vulnerable?”

“Oh Jean, you’re so protective today,” she laughed gratuitously, “but I imagine you’ll sleep like my ex-husband did, soundly and with someone much younger than I.”

“A cheater, eh?  I could have him taken care of for you.”

“Dear boy,” Gertrude stated plainly. “I’ve lived through more wars that I can rightly remember.  If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to move out and onward when the time comes. I’ll have you know I’m very close to reining in husband number three, and you’re not experienced enough to fill the position.”

“Break my heart why don’t you,” Havoc retorted.  He twirled the spiral phone cord around his fingers and pivoted forward in his chair, bringing his feet to the floor.  “But what’s all this fascinating information got to do with the Lieutenant? I was hoping to run into her somewhere all casual like, and if everything you say about Catalina is true, she’s definitely a pistol.  I don’t go into a gunfight without extra ammunition. What else have you got for me?”

“Busy today, are we Jean?” Trudy cooed.  “But I guess I should get to the point. The reason I bring up the brouhaha is because our hot-handed Colonel and that pretty blonde adjunct of his are in a meeting with Grumman right now regarding their temporary transfer to Central.”

The older lady paused for effect, clearly pleased with herself, and continued speaking with a tone which dripped intrigue.  “Before they bolted the door, Lieutenant Hawkeye asked me to cancel her plans with one Lieutenant Catalina for this afternoon.  It turns out they were supposed to meet at the shooting range in, oh I think, 15 minutes. But silly me, I’ve been chatting it up with you, so I just haven’t gotten a chance to call her.  How’s that for fascinating, big boy?”

The smile that graced Havoc’s face threatened to split his mouth from ear to ear.  “You’re the best, Trudy, and since I know you’re oh so busy with all that filing the old man’s got you doing, I’ll just take a walk down to the range and tell her myself.”

“You’re welcome, Jean,” she added with a lazy finality.  “Don’t break her heart, and remember that you owe me one.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.  Add it to my tab.”

And just like that, Jean had a plan.  Like the good soldier everyone said he was, Havoc wasted no time donning his best battle armor, a charming smile.  He smoothed his dirty blonde locks back and slung a decorated military jacket over his shoulder. Lieutenant Havoc headed out the door, eager to charm the royal blue pants off his fellow second lieutenant, but just before the handle clicked closed, he glanced back at his diminished communal office.

“Hold my calls, boys,” Havoc directed.  With The Colonel and Lieutenant Hawkeye gone, he was the senior officer on deck.  No one could keep him from leaving. “Smoke break.”

“Another one?” Falman obliviously asked.

“I’m not finishing your share of the paperwork even if you order me to,” Breda called out after him.  But with his head stuck in the clouds, daydreaming of ‘The Colonel’s pretty blonde adjunct’ as Trudy has called her, it was safe to say Jean hadn’t heard a word.  

“Smoke break my ass,” Breda sighed.

* * *

Lady Luck was a fickle mistress, and Rebecca Catalina, a force to be reckoned with.  A very curvy force, Jean noticed as he followed her onto the firing range like a young pup trailing the heels of his master.  Rebecca’s dark eyes and thick lips glinted at him under the unforgiving sun. And if he hadn’t been so off-put by her terse demeanor, Jean would have wondered why he hadn’t noticed the alluring sway of her hips sooner.

“Look Havoc,” the second lieutenant said, briskly brushing past him and heading toward her designated firing lane, “I appreciate the heads up about Ri being busy, but I’ll be good here all on my own.  Though it might surprise you, this isn’t my first time firing a gun.”

Jean shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, acutely aware that his window of opportunity was closing.  “It was no problem,” he replied, picking a piece of lint from the sleeve of his jacket to buy a few moments.  The words stalled in his dry mouth; his tongue felt as sticky as molasses. “I was just ah… wondering if you came here often.”  Jean winced. Poor form indeed.

“I work here, Havoc, as do you,” Rebecca replied with an expression that was both confused and annoyed.  With her thick raven locks slicked back in a low ponytail and her feet a shoulder’s width apart, Lieutenant Catalina aimed at her target with her trusty handgun.  She braced herself, ready to fire at the black and white target some 50 feet away.

“Oh yeah, I hear that,” Jean recovered shakily.  “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable out here all by yourself.”

At, that, Rebecca sighed and engaged the safety of her gun.  She placed her firearm on the firing lane’s ledge with a resounding thump and turned to face Jean with arms crossed.  “Now I don’t know how you passed Dr. Henderson’s class at the academy with such terrible interrogation skills, but I’m too busy to care.  I take it you didn’t come here just to pass along Riza’s regrets, did you?”

The words weren’t coming easily, Havoc admitted to himself.  His hands slipped reflexively into his pockets, fingering a hollow carton, now bent and bowed from the addict’s earlier musings.  Smoking soothed him, but he would find no solace in it now, and even if he had saved a cigarette or two, the firing range was hardly the place.  Jean knew that, but he reached for the rolled tobacco and nicotine anyway.

He told himself he could quit anytime he wanted to.

“I’m…” he faltered, searching his vocabulary for linguistic purchase.  “I’m worried about Riza.”

“Worried?”  Rebecca’s brows furrowed.  Clearly disarmed, her arms dropped to her sides as she shifted her body to face her peer.  Jean counted his lucky stars that he’d managed to grab her attention at all.

“It’s probably nothing,” he replied, hoping to downplay the curious note in his voice.  “Hawkeye’s just seemed stressed lately, you know.”

“Can’t say I do.”  Lieutenant Catalina frowned as the sour edge to her voice subtly returned.

“Well not stressed,” Jean backtracked, digging his hole ever deeper.  “Isolated maybe. She doesn’t come out with the team or meet up with any of us outside of work.  It’s not healthy.”

“Since when is it your job to worry about what’s healthy for Hawkeye?” Rebecca queried.  “If there’s anyone I know who is committed to their job, who probably enjoys work more than play, it’s Riza.”

With a suave grin, Jean saw his opening and took it before the door shut completely. “Yes, but surely there’s something the guys and I can do to make her feel more comfortable.  Favorite music, books she reads, places she likes to go,” he inquired.

A shrewd smiled curled across Lieutenant Catalina’s lips.  Her eyes flashed with a playful glint.

“Well, as her best friend,” she started with a saccharin sweet tone, “I can tell you she adores chocolate, eats it by the bar on her lonely Saturday nights as she curls up by the fire and listens to those radio dramas.  On Sundays, she drives out to the seashore and skips stones from the dock, wishing that someone with sandy blonde hair and penetrating blue eyes would whisk her off her feet. Is that specific enough for you, Havoc?”

Jean’s mouth opened and closed several times, reminiscent of a trout.  Though her words were sugary, dripping with promise, there was something fishy going on.  “Really?” he asked with naive optimism.

The raven-haired beauty nearly keeled over in laughter.  “No,” she squealed. “Thank heavens you’ve got a pretty face because you sure don’t catch on quick.”

Havoc’s hopeful expression fell into an agitated sneer.   Lieutenant Catalina wasn’t funny. Not funny at all if the joke was at Jean’s expense.

“Really, Havoc? Riza?” she balked with glee.  “She’s about as straight edge as they come, in love with the job.  She doesn’t even want to hold hands, let alone babies. And I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen someone less interested in romance.  As her best friend, I’m here to tell you to give up before you make a fool of yourself. She prefers being alone.”

“Oh yeah,” Jean challenged.  All thoughts of pumping his fellow lieutenant for information fell by the wayside, yielding to the slight against his grievously wounded pride.  “Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think, Catalina? I just figured some competition would be nice.”

“The most reliable man in Riza’s life is her pistol,” Rebecca pronounced.  She turned to grab her firearm and waved over her shoulder. “End of story, and thank you for playing, lieutenant.  Have a nice day.”

The sounds of rapidly fired shots filled the range, and Havoc sensed that it was time to make his exit.  With about as much hustle as he’d ever shown in social situations and no small amount of indignation, he began walking toward the control booth.  However, seeing as he was an excellent marksman himself, Jean couldn’t resist leaving Rebecca with an accurate parting shot.

“Then you might want to ask Hawkeye who sends the flowers she always keeps in her apartment, or why she was lingerie shopping this Wednesday,” he called over his shoulder, above the booming bang of Lieutenant Catalina’s gun.  “Or just ask her about her plans for this weekend. As her best friend, she should tell you or perhaps you should already know.”

A beat of silence confirmed that Jean’s bullet had hit its target, even as he heard Rebecca scoff and continue firing with gusto.  The hope of securing Lieutenant Hawkeye’s affections seemed as dim as the hazy light emanating from the old streetlight outside Jean’s favorite hometown bar, but the image did little to soothe his restless spirit.  He missed his roots, the general store and the company of homegrown friends and family more than he could ever convey, but Lieutenant Havoc wouldn’t think of that. Instead, he replayed the conversation with Rebecca over in his mind as he made his way back toward the endless mountain of paperwork that came with being a second lieutenant on the Colonel’s preferred squad.

“A pretty face,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.  “Well, at least I’ve got that going for me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This chapter goes out to the anon on tumblr who checked in on me. I was having a hard time motivating myself to finish this, but your message motivated me to get it done. As always, endless praise and imaginary props to my beta, [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos). She's a joy to work with, plain and simple. If you're feeling totally awesome and generous, feedback is LIFE. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me asks, questions, comments or concerns. Whatever is on your mind!

The pistol’s sight was off.  Rebecca knew that was the only reason her shots kept missing the target.

It couldn’t be her itchy trigger finger, spawned by a certain second lieutenant whose only positive attribute was the way his arms attractively filled his uniform. And it wasn’t because her best friend had canceled on her _again_.  It was only the second time in one week; nothing to write home about there either.

All she needed to do was adjust the defective sight until her bullets hit their mark, but, for some reason, zeroing her service pistol held very little interest.  It was the kind of mundane activity Rebecca had come to expect in her day-to-day, a kissing cousin of routine work that General Grumman assigned his executive assistant for lack of something meaningful.  If Lieutenant Catalina didn’t know better, she’d say he subconsciously delegated the best assignments to Colonel Mustang.

Only, the lieutenant did know better.  That’s precisely what was happening, but it was 100% deliberate.  Not that anyone could decry the results, which was why she kept her mouth shut.

As a fresh-faced cadet straight from the patriotic embrace of the academy, Rebecca had jumped at the chance to be a general’s executive assistant.  The prestige was alluring, and the perks were plentiful. Where even Riza, the general’s granddaughter, had a communal setup, Catalina had her own office.  Where other officers took on off-duty patrols to make ends meet, her salary was generous and then some. And best of all (as some had said), the most grievous injury she’d received in the line of duty was a papercut.

There could be no doubt about it; Second Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina considered herself lucky.

However, the wind shifted, and all too soon, she smelled a rat.  Throughout her early twenties, the young woman marked time, waiting for the day that she’d be given a field assignment with little momentum to keep her hopes alive.  Just last year, a few weeks shy of her twenty-sixth birthday, Catalina summoned the courage to request a transfer to a livelier office. Hell, even an outpost if it meant she wouldn’t have to pretend to like wine at another hoity-toity cocktail party.

But the bold black stamp at the top of her transfer request spoke volumes where earlier actions had fallen on deaf ears and blind eyes.  Denied, it said with such finality that Rebeca knew it’d be useless to try again. She noted, sadly, that the higher ups hadn’t even bothered to conceal the source.  Brigadier General Jacob Catalina’s office had such distinctive stationery, bearing her father’s name and rank in striking calligraphy.

So she drank and smoked and pined for a one-way ticket out of her cushy, repetitive existence while shifting her focus to the only other career track her family would deem acceptable:  Marriage. The problem with that bright idea, Rebecca lamented, aiming decidedly lower on the anatomically accurate target, was that most of the men she liked turned out to be pigs. Good looking, fun loving and bedroom-hall-of-fame pigs, but swine nonetheless.

It was almost enough to make a woman reconsider her priorities, but (God help her) Rebecca Catalina had a type.

The second lieutenant holstered her gun with a sigh and started toward the control booth without a second glance at her target.  She didn’t need to see the holes up close to know her aim was shit today, save the single shot nestled lovingly in the target’s man bits.  The operator, Gary, a pudgy warrant officer with a rule-oriented streak, chided her all the way to the women’s locker room.

“At least Lieutenant Hawkeye makes you clean up after yourself and reminds you to wear proper ear protection,” he lectured haughtily.  “Can’t you be more like your friend?”

“No can do, Gary” Rebecca replied as she thrust open the door to the locker room.  “We’re not all cut out to be monks.”

* * *

The shrill sound of Lieutenant Catalina’s telephone pierced the silence of her orderly office.  Truth be told, Rebecca was grateful for the interruption – any break really – from the monotony of peeling beige wallpaper, duplicative paperwork and the mechanical whine of outdated office equipment.  Her academy plaques hung on the back wall like badges of honor, but those accomplishments often mocked Catalina. They reminded her that, for all her accolades and awards, she ended up with a desk job.

The reason for her easy nine to five grinned at her from a picture frame right next to the buzzing phone.  Rebecca tore her eyes away from Isaac Catalina’s genuine grin and his poorly-styled mop of wavy black hair as she picked up the receiver and pushed the bitter memory aside.  The past was dead, gone and buried somewhere under the unforgiving Southeastern sun.

“General Grumman’s chambers,” Rebecca stated while summoning the smile that always accompanied her tried and true telephone voice.  “Executive Assistant Lieutenant Catalina speaking.”

“Back from the range so soon?  Oh my, that doesn’t bode well,” Gertrude hummed on the other end. “Did you like the gift basket I sent you?”

“Trudy!” Rebecca exclaimed, half exasperated with her senior co-worker.  “You didn’t tell that glorified Neanderthal where to find me today, did you?”

“I’d give Havoc more credit than that,” Trudy countered.  “His hair is quite nice these days. Very devil-may-care meets military chic.  If I were 20 years younger, I wouldn’t say no to him. Adorably country, all blue-eyed beef and corn-fed brawn.  Also, a rather gifted sweet talker when he wants something. You could do worse.”

“His looks aren’t the problem,” Rebecca said with a sigh.  She leaned back in her cushioned chair and swiveled to stare out her office’s side window.  “It’s what between his ears that I doubt. He wasn’t interested in me; Havoc wanted to know how to get with one of my friends, and I certainly don’t want to waste any time with a man like that.”

The lieutenant grimaced, grateful for the wall separating her office from Gertrude’s lair.  She admitted to herself that had Havoc been interested in her instead of Riza, she would have been more than happy to kill some time with “a man like that.”

“Darling,” Trudy purred with a deceptively matronly tone, “don’t get so caught up in trying to find Mr. Right that you miss Mr. Right Now.  You know what they say, don’t you?”

“Let me guess.  All’s fair in love and war?”

“No.  The early bird gets the worm, and given the amount of time you’ve been spending at the gun range lately, I think you could use a good-sized worm to loosen you up, my little robin.  Something to make you sing nice and loud in the wee hours of the morning if you catch my drift.”

“You’re terrible, Trudy,” Rebecca noted, laughing at the new nickname.  “But yeah, I know what you mean. I was thinking about asking Riza to come out with me to go dancing, maybe meet some guys.”

“Good idea,” the older woman replied, “but you better do it this weekend.  It’ll be public soon enough, so I don’t mind telling you she’ll be temporarily transferred to Central Command starting Monday to help with the rogue alchemist manhunt.  Lieutenant Hawkeye leaves bright and early Sunday morning. Just booked the train tickets myself.”

Rebecca breathed deeply and exhaled in a slow, steady stream.  “It won’t be long before she leaves me behind too. I bet there are a lot of good guys just waiting to be snatched up in Central.”

“Cheer up, little robin,” Gertrude countered with a soft voice, all snark and sass set aside.  “You know I’m stuck with the old man too.” Lieutenant Catalina didn’t need to be face-to-face with her to know that on the other side of the wall, Trudy was also frowning.

* * *

Rebecca’s apartment was much like her office:  Expensive and far too quiet for comfort despite the steady ticking of the ornamental cuckoo clock, the most ridiculous purchase she’d ever failed to talk herself out of.  The off-duty officer took off her boots, carelessly tossing them aside and admiring the way the laces fell in haphazard contrast against the plush cream carpet. Likewise, she slipped off her jacket and rolled her shoulders as she reclined against her purple tweed couch.  Not for the first time, Becca found herself staring blankly at the bumpy surface of her living room wall, smeared and suffocated under so much beige paint.

She’d always promised herself that she’d paint the living room, but somehow, between her tedious career and her lackluster love life, Rebecca never found the time.

The apartment intercom buzzed from its position near the front door, and Rebecca jumped up excitedly to attend to the rude noise.  She didn’t bother to tidy her living room or arrange her coffee table magazines in a hopefully elegant (but ultimately contrived) splay.  Neither did she feel any compulsion to fix her smeared mascara in the foyer’s pretty mirror. And when a dull thud sounded through the hardwood oak door, Rebecca threw it open before the third knock.

“I had half a mind to cancel on you while you were on your way up,” Rebecca stated with arms crossed over her chest; however, the easy smile on her lips betrayed her stance.  When it came to Riza Hawkeye, the second lieutenant’s poker face was notoriously wanting. She was genuinely happy to see her best friend.

“Don’t be silly,” Hawkeye shot back, traversing the apartment’s threshold with a large brown paper bag in hand.  The aromatic fragrance sesame oil and savory spices followed the blonde lieutenant, appealing to Catalina’s grumbling stomach.  Wispy strands of light hair escaped the first lieutenant’s customary updo, and dark circles stained the tired space underneath the young woman’s eyes.  “You’d never turn away a good meal. Breda recommended the place; that’s got to count for something.”

They ate in comfortable silence at first.  Rebecca took the floor in front of the coffee table while Riza, undoubtedly the more refined of the pair, perched on the soft cushion of the couch.  Given their profiles, Rebecca often marveled that their personalities should have been reversed. After all, while Riza had spent her youth traipsing across the Eastern countryside – Rebecca assumed, – the second lieutenant had grown up in grand rented homes, courtesy of her father’s transfers.  Her fragmented education focused on first impressions, strategic friendships and rules that didn’t belong to a textbook.

“So, you had a meeting with the old man today, Ri?” Rebecca managed through a heaping mouthful of chow mein.

“I did,” Riza replied, neatly spooning a bit of wonton soup past her thin lips. “The Colonel and I are getting transferred to Central temporarily.  I am sorry that I had to cancel, Becca. It couldn’t be helped.”

“You’re forgiven. This is better.” Rebecca gratefully nodded toward the generous spread.  “Maybe I can come and visit you in Central on your weekends off. It was one of my favorite places that my father got stationed.  Lots of fun bars and great restaurants that stay open late.”

“Maybe,” Riza responded, “but I don’t expect I’ll have a lot of free time.  We’re being placed on the task force that’s hunting the Freezing Alchemist. General Grumman also mentioned that the top brass is looking to promote someone to a position in Central’s Investigations Branch.  The Colonel’s name is on their short list, and he’s eager to make a good impression while we’re there.”

“We’re not at work, Ri,” Rebecca chided.  “You can use their names. Roy. Grandfather, even.  Besides, this is great news. If The Colonel is being promoted, maybe they’ll tap you to fill his spot at Eastern.  You do enough of his job as it is.”

“I’ll stick with their honorifics, thank you,” Riza retorted.  The mention of her grandfather never failed to ruffle a few sore feathers.  “Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if The Colonel calls in a few favors to have the team transferred with him if he’s promoted.”

The realization that Hawkeye was on her way out of Eastern Command stung, but Catalina pushed aside her aching heartstrings.  She set her face in a congratulatory smile and tried like hell to be happy for her friend. Riza wasn’t the first friend to leave her for greener pastures, and with the way things were going, she wouldn’t be the last.

“Well, there’s a silver lining,” Rebecca shot back.  “If you leave me, at least you’ll be taking that oaf, Havoc, with you.  He said the most ridiculous thing to me to today at the gun range.”

“Havoc was at the gun range?” Riza asked.  She took a sip of her water and looked back at Rebecca with an expectant expression, ready for the inevitable story.

Rebecca’s good mood resurfaced, though she was a little too happy to dig into the details of her exchange with the brawny but brainless lieutenant.  She leaned into her bottle of bitter ale and took a deep swig of the bubbly amber elixir; however, a little voice in the back of her mind counseled discretion.  She wouldn’t tell Riza everything. No, there was no need to make the former sniper’s male-dominated workspace anymore stilted than it already was. And then there was the matter of Rebecca’s pride.  Havoc hadn’t wanted her, but Riza didn’t need to know that.

“He stopped by to tell me you were in a meeting,” Catalina explained, “and then tried to chat me up for a few minutes.  Hoping to get out of his paperwork, I expect.”

“Or into your pants.  It seems like he’s always looking for a new girlfriend,” Hawkeye added with a sly grin.  

“You have no idea.”

“I’ve worked with him for years, Becca.  I think I’ve heard the worst of it.”

“Oh yeah,” Catalina challenged.  One detail. One tiny detail wouldn’t hurt, and it would prove how ludicrous the whole ordeal had been without getting into the nitty-gritty facts.  “He said he saw you buying lingerie yesterday. How ridiculous is that?”

Riza froze, noodles slipping from her fork. Her eyes widened, and her mouth stalled, slightly agape.  A subtle blush colored the apples of the first lieutenant’s cheeks. She didn’t need to say a word; this alarmed expression said everything.

“Oh my God, that bastard was telling the truth! It was you.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Like hell it wasn’t you.  You’re practically blushing.  Don’t make me request the security footage from all the lingerie stores in town to prove my point.”

Riza’s eyes narrowed.  “You wouldn’t dare abuse your position like that.”

“Yes, I would,” Rebecca quipped, half-certain that she was lying.  “Your grandfather gives me so little worth doing. Looking busy and engaged might be a welcome change.  I wonder what you bought. Thongs, bras or a nice corset? I hope it’s not a corset. Those things are dreadfully uncomfortable even if they do-”

“Alright, it was me,” Riza bitterly admitted.  “I just needed a few new pairs of underthings. Nothing salacious despite what Havoc may think he saw.  It’s not a big deal.”

Rebecca rose clumsily from the floor and plopped next to Riza on the small love seat, leaning against the overstuffed cushion.  Nevertheless, her best friend’s posture remained uncharacteristically guarded; Riza’s back was as straight as an arrow. All thoughts of their delicious Xingese supper were set aside.  It was unlike Riza to react to something so trivial like this; rarely was she so lost in her own thoughts in the company of her best friend.

“Of course it isn’t a big deal,” Becca echoed, placing a hand on Riza’s arm.  The contact seemed to pull her from a faraway land that existed in her mind’s eye.  “There’s nothing wrong about shopping for panties. In fact, I wish you’d invited me to go with you.  We could have made a night of it.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.  I don't want an audience when I’m buying underwear.”

“Come on, Riza.  You know I wouldn’t really have requested the videos.  I’m not a complete dilettante,” she added, craning her neck to make eye contact with a perturbed Riza Hawkeye.

“Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you,” Rebecca interjected with a renewed purpose in her posture.  “Let’s go out tomorrow or Saturday before you leave. My treat. Dinner and dancing. Dinner and drinks.  Hell, I’ll take just dinner at an actual restaurant wearing something other than our uniforms. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” Riza responded.  She smiled sweetly, seeming to forgive Rebecca for her earlier pokes and prods.  “But I can’t. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon for Central. The Colonel and I have a lot of catching up to do on the investigation over the weekend.  I was actually hoping that you’d stop by my place to feed and walk Hayate while I’m gone, but I can always ask Fuery if you still want to go out.”

The raven-haired beauty’s hopeful face fell as her best friend spoke.  She shrugged her shoulder and dismissively waved her hand. “Nah, if you’re not available, there’s no point.  I might as well spend the evening with Hayate. Havoc aside, it might be the most male attention I’ve had in months.  Mind if I bring him here seeing as you could be out of town for quite a while?”

“But I thought you couldn’t have dogs in this apartment?” Riza asked, popping a piece of stir-fried shrimp into her mouth.

“You let me worry about that,” Becca said reassuringly.  “I know a certain building manager who grows and sells some - shall we say - restricted herbs without a license.  And I’m not above making his life difficult if does the same for mine. Blind eyes work both ways.”

“I suppose they do.”  Riza tipped her water glass in her friends’ direction, and Rebecca brought her bottle of beer to meet it.  However different, the glasses clinked harmoniously, much like the ladies’ oil and water relationship.

* * *

With words of thanks, Riza and Rebecca agreed to exchange Hayate after work then next day and stashed the leftovers in Becca’s fridge.  Hawkeye left promptly before the stroke of eleven. It would have to be enough, Catalina lamented to herself. She would have to either make the most of the time she had left with Hawkeye or try her hand at finding another work bestie.  Though she doubted anyone could compare to Riza, not when the age gap between Rebecca and the new hires grew larger with each passing year.

Yet, there was something about Riza’s visit that bothered her, an odd incongruity that Becca couldn’t put her finger on.

Muscle memory saw Catalina through her evening routine, and with a freshly washed face and a pair of wooley striped socks, she settled in bed with a deliciously naughty romance novel.  Rebecca felt her mind grow fuzzy around the provocative mental image of the Dread Pirate Fred and his wench, Angelina, gazing starry-eyed at each other under an endless expanse of twinkling stars.  The moans of passion, so vividly described in her bedtime reading, reminded Rebecca of Trudy and her newest nickname, little robin.

The second lieutenant tossed her book on the bedside table and shut off the lamp, resigned to an evening of deep, peaceful slumber.  In the empty space between dreams and reality, she wouldn’t have to think of the lonely months behind her (or ahead of her). Neither would she want to wonder what caused the niggling feeling in the back of her mind nor prematurely liken herself to her boss’s secretary.

Rebecca was confident that she’d get a man, and hang on to him, _eventually_. She wouldn’t spend her days shuttling papers from one pile to another and divulging travel plans willy-nilly to help younger officers plan their…

Wait a minute.  Gertrude’s nasally voice echoed in Becca’s tired brain, now set alight with questions, concerns and comments.  “ _Lieutenant Hawkeye leaves bright and early Sunday morning.  Just booked the train tickets myself_.”

Rebecca sat straight up in bed, acutely awake when moments before she’d been knocking on the sandman’s door.

“Riza lied to me,” Becca exclaimed to no one in particular.  “Goddammit, Havoc's right. She’s _seeing_ someone.”


	5. Chapter 5

That Friday morning started like any other for Lieutenant Havoc:  A shower, a cigarette (or three) on the way to work and a breakfast of black coffee before his team’s morning briefing.  Jean gulped down his first cup with gusto, pretending not to be bothered by the way his own creation tasted burnt and gritty.  And Havoc knew that if he glanced down to look in his mug, he would have seen coffee grounds floating amidst the dark, full-bodied liquid.

“You are aware that coffee is a drink, right?” Breda teased with a perturbed slant in his trademark smirk.  He emptied his cup in the break room sink and watched the concoction circle the drain along with his hopes for a quality pick-me-up.  “It’s not supposed to be half solid.”

Havoc was in no mood for Breda’s bellyaching.  Like a good wingman, his academy pal could have ( _should_ have) steered him away from the sarcastic clutches of Rebecca Catalina.  “If you’re going to be picky make the coffee yourself,” Jean replied. He directed his next comment to the familiar trio of officers congregated around the coffee maker.  “I didn’t see any of you assholes lining up to brew a pot for the office.”

“I was waiting for Lieutenant Hawkeye,” Falman stated defensively, pressing a small mug gingerly between his hands.  After a moment of silent contemplation, Vato set the cup on the counter and glanced back toward the voluminous amount of paperwork in their team’s inbox.  “She always makes the first batch, and she never forgets to double up on the filters or check our inbox. However, I haven’t seen Lieutenant Hawkeye or The Colonel all morning.”

“It’s good, Havoc.  Thanks, really,” Fuery said with tenderness.  It wasn’t lost on Jean that the youngest member of their team still hadn’t taken a sip.  “And I’m sure Hawkeye’s just running a little late.”

“She’s not, actually,” Jean supplied.  He turned away from his fellow officers and choked back the last of the bitter elixir in his mug with a silent grimace.  Then, Havoc spun sharply to face his three comrades with a cocky grin meant to inspire confidence.

“The Colonel and I spoke last night after you all left me to finish _our_  work,” Havoc announced with a poorly veiled air of importance.

“And who’s fault is that?” Breda interjected.  “I told you I wasn’t going to finish _your_ paperwork just because you want to huff and puff like a nicotine-addicted dragon on the military’s dime.”

“For your information, I’ve cut back to half a pack a day,” Jean lied, rising to Heymans’s bait all too easily.  “But seriously, guys, can I just have this? Can you all just be serious for one moment and let me tell you what The Colonel told me?”

“Is this about The Colonel and Hawkeye’s temporary transfers to Central?”  Fuery asked eagerly. The corners of the master sergeant’s mouth were pleasantly upturned; he was an insufferable morning person if ever there was one.  However, in response to Fuery’s good-natured interjection, Jean’s eyes snapped in the young officer’s direction. Not unlike a seething beast whose treasure was threatened, Jean’s gaze narrowed.

“S-sorry,” Kain replied, stumbling over his words. “I heard about it while listening in on the broadcasts to and from Central Command after I got home last night.”

“You monitor radio broadcasts during your free time,” Breda interjected with a hint of incredulity dangling from his all-but-forked tongue.

Fuery chuckled and answered Breda with a sincere timbre that made both second lieutenants think twice about faulting the young veteran for his idiosyncrasies.  “It’s a habit from my time at the front. The guys and I used to gather around the radio in the evening and listen for news while we played cards. I play solitaire sometimes too when it gets too quiet,” he added reverently.

The tense morning mood softened as a bittersweet expression crossed Kain Fuery’s youthful features.  Emotion flooded the frown lines on his forehead and deepened the small creases astride his half-smile.  Even Havoc, whose thunder had been effectively stolen by the newest member of their team, suppressed his aggravation.  Their master sergeant was many things (kind, unassuming, occasionally bumbling) but inexperienced was not one of them, especially when it came to warfare.  If nothing else, Havoc would allow the junior member of their squad space to remember his brothers and sisters in blue however he chose to do so.

Thankfully, the tender spell was broken as Vato coughed heartily, nearly choking on what didn’t pass for his morning cup of joe.  “Good lord,” he sputtered, “the more I drink, the worse it gets.”

“Alright,” Jean stressed. Rolling his eyes in defeat, “I get it.  I won’t be making the coffee anymore, but I will be leading this team while The Colonel and Hawkeye are working with Central Command on the Freezing Alchemist manhunt.  And by the sound of it, they could be stationed in Central for a while. They’re coordinating with other departments this morning and clearing a few details with the security division.  They’ll be back by this afternoon to officially hand over the reins to yours truly.”

Havoc paused for effect, but the news didn’t seem to hit the team as hard as he would have liked.  Breda shrugged, turning back toward the coffee pot. Without permission, the second lieutenant emptied the carafe and prepared to brew a fresh batch.  Likewise, Falman went about his business with a small nod in Havoc’s direction. The tall warrant officer retrieved his team’s paperwork from their inbox and thumbed through the pages.  His customary nonplussed expression remained intact. Only Fuery threw a few words of confidence Jean’s way as he held open the door for an absent-minded Falman.

So much for the big reveal.

However, it hadn’t been entirely unexpected, Havoc rationalized as the three men made their way back to their office, now weighed down with more responsibility.  Team Mustang, as the entirety of Eastern Command derisively called them, was a well-oiled machine, primped and polished to perfection by The Colonel’s right-hand woman, the Hawk’s Eye.  And though Havoc had a few suggestions about other needy areas of interest that Riza could refine, mainly in the best friend department, the second lieutenant was grateful for her dedication to her profession.

Maybe it was best to do as Rebecca and Heymans had suggested:  Chalk up the whole disastrous endeavor to a bad idea, inexplicably fueled by hormones and an inability to “read the room.”  Whatever that meant. Rather than forget, Havoc filed away the tantalizing mental image of his superior officer decked out in naught but sexy satin lingerie in a folder labeled “not in this lifetime” and sat down at his desk to focus (more or less) on the task at hand.  That was until a pretty piece of folded paper caught his eye.

 _For Jean Havoc_ , it read in an elegant script that ensnared Jean’s interest anew.

The paper was a light sage, he noticed, bearing penmanship that was feminine to a fault.  Even the weight of the fine stationery oozed finesse, light and almost sheer with a subtle glimmer where the official letterhead was thick, matte and unyielding.  Jean drew his thumb across the writer’s beautiful handiwork, and he circled the _O_ in his own name for good measure, admiring that the angle of every letter slanted just so.  Each word ended in a refined upward flourish.

Jean could barely contain his shock when opened the pretty note to find a familiar name and destination contained in the simple, if cheeky, instructions.

_Shooting range.  0900. Leave your sweet talk in the locker room.  Bring your A game. -Rebecca Catalina_

Havoc glanced up with a slack jaw to find the clock reading 0855.  For the second time in as many days, he dashed up and out of the office throwing some silly excuse at his colleagues.  Without the slightest bit of hesitation, Breda plucked the forgotten note off Jean’s workstation and glanced over the fine writing before wordlessly depositing the pretty thing in his pocket for safekeeping.

For all his pokes and prods at Jean’s pride, let it never be said that Heymans wasn’t looking out for him when it mattered.

* * *

“You’re late,” Rebecca announced, more amused than perturbed, as Jean jogged toward her in his disheveled office uniform.  Her left hand rested confidently on her hip, matching the devilish glint in her eyes. The other arm was tucked neatly behind the second lieutenant’s sumptuous figure.  Jean swallowed hard as his eyes took in Rebecca’s thick, raven hair, her hips for days and a pair of breasts so deliciously perky that Havoc decided he could have overlooked her tempest attitude.  Not that he would. Not after being so thoroughly skewered by her sharp tongue the day before.

“I just saw the note,” Jean managed as he approached, clutching a stitch in his side.  After dismissing the pesky blush that has settled in his cheeks, he checked his watch and fixed his fellow lieutenant with an incredulous stare.  “I’m a whole two minutes late, and I ran most of the way. I nearly bowled the General over in the hallway. You’re welcome, by the way, for meeting you after yesterday.”

“The old man will live,” Rebecca said dismissively.  “And I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not going to apologize for that.  I admit that I might have said some things that were unfair, but I don’t appreciate being pumped for tips on how to date my best friend.”

Jean shrugged, squarely bested at the thought of his crass and foolhardy attempt.  “It wasn’t my best effort,” he conceded with a mocking tone.

“Let’s hope.”

“Wait.  Does this mean you’re going to help me with Hawkeye?”

“Slow down, lover boy.  I’ve got conditions.”

From behind sultry hips, Rebecca produced a mid-sized manila folder of the confidential variety.  It was Second Lieutenant Havoc’s personnel file. She flashed the neat typographic label at Jean long enough for him to take in his own name and rank before tucking the incriminating folder underneath her arm.  Still, Lieutenant Catalina’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

“Is nothing private around here?” Havoc asked sincerely, wondering vaguely about the contents of the file.  What had The Colonel’s annual evaluation said? Had there really been disciplinary complaints stemming from the training exercises with the Briggs Bears two years ago?  General Armstrong had all but forced that in-house moonshine on him, so he wasn’t entirely to blame for what might have been considered a diplomatic incident featuring indecent exposure.

“Depends who’s asking,” Rebecca responded, interrupting his tumultuous train of thought.  “Anyway, I ran across your file while I was helping Trudy with the dusting.”

“Dusting?  That’s what you two call violating confidentiality these days?  More like digging up dirt.”

“And I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t take Dr. Henderson’s defensive strategy class at all.  You were in Commander Petrov’s covert ops course, and you did an externship under him the next year, finishing with high marks.”

Jean chest grew as his ego inflated.  “Yeah, so?”

“So, Petrov wasn’t just a ballbuster of a professor; he was an adjunct from Central Intelligence.  That means he not only saw something in you, but you were working under him on official undercover operations in your second year at school.”

“They needed a pretty face who was too young to be considered a real threat,” Jean said.  He recalled, only too well, how the Commander had tapped him to entertain the wives of a few foreign diplomats with notoriously wandering eyes, hands and everything that fell below.

 _You stand out from the crowd_ , Petrov had explained. _It’s pointless to teach you how to fit in, but you can use what you’ve got if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty._  And that’s exactly what Jean had done, all while wearing a wire, of course.

“What’s it to you, Catalina?”

“I know a person of mutual interest who needs following tonight,” Becca explained.  “Someone who means something to both of us, but who also has sharp eyes.”

“Hawk’s eyes?”

“Yes, and before you say anything about me sneaking behind her back, know that I love her like a sister.  A sister who looked me straight in the eyes and lied to me about where she’d be tonight. And God knows, I know she can take care of herself, and I wouldn’t judge her hooking up with the sloppiest drunk this side of the Northern Wall of Briggs.”

Jean sensed a fair amount of subtext buried beneath the last line of her monologue.  He bowed his head and scratched the back of his neck, eyeing the ground as if the concrete had a cure for an acute case of embarrassment.  An old scar from a through-and-through gunshot wound rubbed uncomfortably against the rear of his starched trousers.

“I take it there is an official complaint about the Briggs incident in there.”

Rebecca hummed with lowkey laughter, crossing her arms across the file now flush against her ample chest.

“There might be,” she stated.  A bemused sideways glance betrayed her interest in the sordid tale of sheer tomfuckery.

Rebecca cleared her throat.  “The point is that if I try to tail Ri myself, she’ll find out.  But if I have you to help me, I’ve got a better chance of following her without being discovered, just in case this is all some big misunderstanding.  In return, I’ll tell you what you want to know about Riza within reason.”

Havoc knew what his answer would be before Rebecca had finished asking her question.  As an older brother, he understood, better than most, having both the sincere belief that a young woman could take of herself while also harboring a compulsion to secretly check up on her just to be absolutely certain.  Sisterly concern was an endearing feather in Rebecca Catalina’s cap, and suddenly, the prospect of an evening alone with her felt less like a means to an end and more like the most exciting thing he’d done in ages.

For the second time that morning, Havoc paused for effect.  His eyes fanned over Rebecca as if he was appraising the truth behind her words, but his gaze lead him somewhere else entirely.  Jean considered the lieutenant’s full lips and the defiant wave of several stray strands of hair that refused be to be tamed by her low ponytail.  Then, there was her body, her strong posture, her lethal but manicured hands. Every last drop of red blood in his weak body screamed "yes."

“Alright,” Jean responded with false reluctance, “but I gotta know one thing.  Why are you making this offer to me? With all of Eastern Command’s personnel files at the tips of your dusty fingers, you’ve got to know that there are better candidates.”

Rebecca met his direct question with an equally candid answer.  No insults or taunts this time, just the truth.

“It’s like you said; if there’s another man in her life, competition might be a good thing.  And you’re the devil I know, not the one she’s hiding.”

* * *

Havoc skipped lunch altogether that day, hoping to make up for the time he spent chatting with Rebecca.  There was an intense, businesslike way he handled his workload, darting from one problem to the next, balancing logistics and delegating where another skillset would hasten the situation’s resolution.  It wasn’t the exhilarating work Jean had initially pictured when he signed on as Team Mustang’s knight, but he’d come to realize that the foundation of any thrilling operation was more like chess than Yahtzee.  It started with solid planning and well-drafted paperwork. By the time Mustang turned over the reins to Havoc, the knight was ready to ride with a beautiful damsel (who didn’t know the meaning of distress) by his side.

The second lieutenant closed up shop promptly at five o’clock with nary a scrap of paperwork left for Falman to peruse.  A grateful Breda departed stealthily, hoping that if Havoc was not as industrious as he appeared, the mistake wouldn’t be noticed until after he left.  Luckily, for once, he had been, and just as Fuery was about to make his exit, Havoc clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“You up for some dog-sitting tonight?” he asked, throwing an arm around Kain’s shoulders.  “There’s a shiny new radio thingamabob in it for you if don’t ask any questions and forget about it afterward.”

Unsurprisingly, Kain was quick to agree.

Jean – now wearing his civvies of choice – met an equally casual Rebecca at on old storage shed before the sun had finished setting.  It was an odd place to meet, he thought, as she forced the shutter door of garage number 7309 upward. But Havoc quickly changed his tune when she whipped a dust-cloaked covering off the hood of a sleek green truck that, despite its pristine condition, had to be behind the times by at least a decade or two.

“Not too noticeable,” Rebecca declared as she allowed Havoc to approach and circle the disused vehicle.

The country boy appraised the aged goliath of dark green metal and glass like a vulture eyeing its prey.  His memory stirred, and Jean smiled broadly as he ran his thumb over the telltale emblem in the center of the tailgate.  For as sure as he had been synonymous with mayhem in more than just name growing up, Havoc knew that this truck was a Stenly Power Wagon.  It was the same make and model of vehicle as the one the regular suppliers used to drive during his days as an unpaid helper in the family general store.

“Oh, baby girl,” he exclaimed, addressing the car, “what has she done to you?  Tell Uncle Havoc where it hurts, and he’ll make it better.”

“I know,” Rebecca sighed with crossed arms and a begrudging smile, “I haven’t driven her much, and Isaac would probably say the same if he could see her covered in dust like this.”

“Isaac?” Jean asked, peering at Rebecca around the passenger side mirror.

“He’s my brother,” she answered.  “My older brother. He went to Ishval and didn’t make it back.”

Rebecca’s eyes fell downward, and her pleasant expression faltered.  Silence filled the dusty garage, and Jean found himself speechless for a moment, contemplating the implication of her words.  Yet, given what little he knew of Rebecca and the evening that laid ahead of him, Jean decided not to give the past much purchase.

“Well, he had excellent taste in cars,” he quipped.  Jean moved toward Rebecca and extended his hand, palm up.  “May I?” he asked, pulling his partner in crime from her silent reverie.  A small smile returned to Rebecca’s face, and she wordlessly handed over the key.

With the eagerness of a knock-kneed schoolboy, Havoc darted to the driver’s side and threw open the door.  He slid into the dusty leather seat and placed the key in the ignition. No sooner had Rebecca approached the old truck, peeking around the open driver’s side door, than Havoc had adjusted his steering wheel and mirrors.  The custom seat, which had always been a stumbling block for her, fit his height to a tee.

“You’ll have to pump the clutch to get her to st-”

Without a stutter or lurch, the Stenly Power Wagon roared to life, settling into a gentle purr that shook the dust from the cracks and crevices of the garage.  Havoc looked back at Rebecca with a cheeky expression that did little to belie his childish enthusiasm.

“I learned to drive in a truck like this,” he said instead of the full explanation.  Truly, that was a story of grand theft auto better left for another time. “Hop in _mon chéri_.  It ain’t right to keep a fine old gal like this waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! Thanks for stopping by, and thank you or making it to the end of this chapter! If you're feeling supersaturated with seasonal cheer, please know that feedback is such a gift to me. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated when and if you have a moment to spare. Also, dear readers, please check out my wonderful beta's newly finished fic, [Time Enough At Last](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491818/chapters/38623811). It's a Greed!Hughes canon divergence work, and it's just what the doctor ordered if you're looking for something thrilling and chilling to mellow out all the holiday cheer.
> 
> While this is my busiest time of the year (apart from wedding season), I hope to update this every three weeks, and you may have noticed that I added a chapter to the overall length. (Ambitious outlining strikes again.) However, I'm also going to try to participate in [Moms Made Fullmetal 2018](https://moms-made-fullmetal-2018.tumblr.com/) and [ Fullmetal Alchemist Secret Santa](http://fullmetalsecretsanta.tumblr.com/). So tumblr events + other WIPs + my life = A Very Busy Passing Housewife. That said, check in with on tumblr @ [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Encouragement always helps me make progress, and I might have a sneak peek to share.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all! It happened again. I got caught up with tumblr events and holiday cheer, but this time I do have something to show for it. If you're wondering what kept me away, be sure to check out [Cost of Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228519/chapters/40513301), my gift fic for my wonderful beta, [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos). A big thanks to her for helping me get back on track after another unintentional hiatus. Keeping me on the grammatically straight and metaphorically narrow can be a full-time job. 
> 
> As always, feedback is so appreciated. Kudos, bookmarks and comments give me life. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me asks, questions, comments or whatever else may be on your mind. Happy reading!

The drive to Riza’s apartment was familiar, but the thrill fluttering in Rebecca’s stomach was new.  Havoc drove; his foot stuck to the gas pedal in a way that obliged his passenger’s fingernails to dig into hardened leather on the underside of the front seat, but Rebecca found herself in no position to complain.  In fact, the disused lieutenant couldn’t remember the last time trepidation and elation had combined within her.  It stuck in her throat like a lump that refused to be swallowed. And, if there was any doubt, the 100-watt smile plastered across her face said the words Rebecca wouldn’t dare deliver:  She was tired of playing it safe; she liked a little bit of danger.

In preparation for their stakeout, Jean parked two blocks away from Riza’s economy apartment, and with less than five minutes to spare, the conspirators reviewed the plan as best they knew it.  Rebecca hemmed and hawed about Kain Fuery’s involvement, but Havoc was quick to defend the master sergeant’s dog-sitting services as well as his silence. A million questions raced through her mind; however, Jean wiped the slate clean with a calm confidence that Rebecca envied.

“Hawkeye trusts him, and the dog loves him,” Jean stated optimistically. “He’ll meet you in the alleyway next to her building and take Hayate back to the dorm with him.  Hiding a dog for one night should be a piece of cake for Fuery. Besides, the kid may seem green, but he knows how to take care of business, especially when there’s a new whatchamacallit communication thing on the line.”

“Really, Jean?  You bribed him to help us?”  Rebecca adjusted her torso to face Jean and crossed her arms against the green peacoat buttoned over her ample chest.  She absentmindedly wound a thick lock of hair around her index finger as she spoke, a nervous tell Rebecca thought she’d left behind with other teenage insecurities.

Havoc didn’t deny it.  Instead, he threw Rebecca a maddening smirk cut off by the short collar of his bomber jacket.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he retorted. “Be careful where you point that goody-two-shoes act.”

“What makes you think it’s an act?” she shot back.  Even as she felt her own lips curl with satisfaction, Rebecca noticed that there was a playful edge to her words, and a small part of her hoped against hope that Jean would rise to the challenge she presented.

Jean’s head turned, and like his passenger, he shifted the trunk of his brawny chest toward her.  “I go with my gut,” he explained, “and it, along with that sharp tongue of yours, tells me that you’re trouble, among other things.”

Rebecca’s pulse rose up, up and away like a hot air balloon carried on the winds of change and hope. “Oh yeah?  What other things is your gut telling you?”

Jean leaned in, edging ever closer to Rebecca.  She felt dazed and somewhat giddy, drawn in by the easy charm he wielded carelessly.  When Havoc spoke, his voice was just above a husky whisper, and Rebecca wondered if he knew how _hard_ she had to try to remember his reputation as a shameless philanderer.

“That you're going to be late to pick up Hayate,” he murmured with cocky intonation.  His baby blue eyes glanced toward his trusty wristwatch and then back to Rebecca’s flushed face to drive the point home.

In an instant, the lieutenant’s face fell into an exasperated scowl as she realized her conspirator was insufferably right.  Undeterred, Havoc leaned back with a haughty chuckle, and Rebecca threw the car door open. She slid out as gracefully as possible and slammed the heavy door behind her as soon as her stylish ballet flats hit the pavement.  With a toss of her raven hair, Rebecca turned on her heel sparing a single backward glance in Havoc’s direction, complete with a rare flourish of her middle finger. It was a childish gesture, Rebecca realized, but Havoc’s amused expression did nothing to deter her juvenile impulses.

By the time Rebecca reached the entrance of Riza’s apartment, the second lieutenant had to suppress the impish grin she wore so very well in the dirty reflection of the main door.  After a few cleansing breaths, Rebecca pressed the scuffed button next to the faded name “R. Hawkeye.” She waited impatiently for her best friend to buzz her in.

* * *

The exchange was cordial, customary and not the least bit suspicious in Rebecca’s novice opinion.  Riza answered her front door clad in a pale blue bathrobe and a pair of slippers that looked as if they too had seen more combat than the second lieutenant.  Fresh from a hot shower, Riza’s skin appeared rosy and warm to the touch. Her damp hair hung down her back, wavy and clumped in dark honey locks. There was a thankful glint in Riza’s chestnut eyes that made Rebecca’s stomach lurch as she considered the covert activities she’d forced into fruition, but as soon as the second lieutenant spied a pair of suitcases in the entryway, Rebecca reinforced her resolve.

The lie that had fallen so easily from Riza’s lips rang in Rebecca’s mind.   _I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon for Central_ , she had said with the even-temperament of a first class sniper.  In contrast, Rebecca’s blood boiled, knowing that Lieutenant Hawkeye wasn’t expected to depart East City train station until Sunday morning.  Rebecca swallowed the harsh words that rose in her throat, willing her features to remain friendly, open and otherwise unaware of the subterfuge taking place right under the aquiline nose she resented since her teenage years.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a bite to eat before you head off to Central?”  Rebecca asked hopefully, bending down to ruffle Hayate’s thick fur. A naive, illogical part of her begged Riza to say yes, to suddenly declare that she’d misspoken and wasn’t leaving until Sunday.  It was all an innocent misunderstanding.

“I wish there was time,” Riza responded without the slightest bit of guilt or hesitation.  “A car’s arriving in 20 minutes to take me to the station. If I don’t get a move on, I’ll be traveling to Central in my bathrobe and slippers.”

Riza giggled at the thought, and her eyes squinted cheerfully, enhancing the subtle crow’s feet at the corners.  The word “liar” reverberated between Rebecca’s ears, but for once in her loquacious life, she kept her mouth shut.

“If you’re sure,” Rebecca carefully responded.  She faced Riza with a worried expression, head spinning as she witnessed her best friend’s easy dishonesty.  The mystery of what and _who_ Riza Hawkeye was doing this evening seemed more worrisome with each revolution.

“Hey,” Riza said, offering her friend words of reassurance, “you shouldn’t worry about me.  The Colonel and I will be alright, and we’ll be back in East City before Hayate gets too comfortable in your apartment.”

“Call me when you get there?” Rebecca asked, knowing that Riza wasn’t the type to check in or be beholden to the social niceties that came so easily to her well-practiced peers.

Riza hugged Rebecca in a rare show of affection, and their quick, sisterly embrace took Rebecca by surprise.  Still, glancing downward, Rebecca caught a glimpse of a slender crimson strap where the robe shifted and slumped over her friend’s narrow shoulders.  “I’ll call you at the office when I’m settled in, probably on Monday afternoon.”

“Until Monday then,” Rebecca confirmed, accepting Hayate’s leash.

Riza bent down to bid her pup a heartfelt farewell, and after a few final words of parting and pets, Rebecca left, laden down with a bag of dog food, extra puppy pads and Hayate prancing obediently beside her.  Riza shut and latched the door quickly - too quickly - and Rebecca was all too certain that the night was only beginning for her best friend, a woman with a complicated past if ever there was one. Guilt tugged at Rebecca’s heartstrings, unruly where Hayate was so well-behaved.  Rebecca knew she should have let it all go, but her wounded pride wouldn't give her any peace.

Rebecca had to know, and whatever secrets she learned would be kept, just as if Riza had chosen to trust her.

* * *

The handoff with Fuery went swimmingly.  Hayate barked and pranced when he saw the freckled-faced master sergeant, and after quieting the pup with a handful of treats, Fuery was quick to assure Rebecca that he had a fantastic evening planned for his furry friend.  Rebecca scurried away after rattling off her address to Kain who, in turn, fervently assured her that he would deliver Hayate to her apartment the next morning.  Scout's honor.

“How’d it go?” Havoc said as Rebecca slid back into the truck and took off her coat.  She shook her hair out from her customary low ponytail and fanned it across her shoulders. Havoc slipped on a black newsboy cap that clashed hopelessly with his jacket but hid his both his blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Really good,” Rebecca answered.  Her cheerful air faded fast. “Except my best friend is definitely lying to me, and her dog is going on what sounds like the best date I've heard of in a long time while I am stuck doing surveillance.”

“Oh yeah?  What are Fuery and Hayate getting up to,” Jean asked, and though Rebecca thought his tone was rather flat and bored, his eyes flitted to her, waiting patiently for the answer she had to give.

“They’re going to the park and having dinner by that nice fountain before Fuery sneaks Hayate into the barracks,”  she answered with a sigh. Rebecca grasped a pair of binoculars in her idle hands, intently watching the main entrance to Riza’s apartment.

“That’s it?” Havoc chuckled.  “No drinking and dancing or a candlelit dinner?  Walking around and having around and sandwiches by a fountain?  That’s your idea of a nice date?”

“Why are you surprised?” Rebecca asked.  “Not every girl likes to be wined and dined all the time.  Some just want you to talk to them, and they’re more than happy to pay for their own drinks.”

“So you…  I mean Hawkeye, she likes that sort of thing?” he stuttered.

“Not talking so much, unlike me,” Rebecca explained.  She reminded herself that information was part of the bargain, and Jean had more than earned a few words of advice.  “It takes a long time for a person like Riza to open up. Hell, I’ve known her since the Academy, and she hasn’t told me her whole story yet, just bits and pieces.  Riza likes quiet company... and jazz music.”

Rebecca’s nose wrinkled at the thought of sitting through another boring cafe jam session.  The pluck of an upright string bass always lulled Rebecca’s senses into a state of sensory deprivation as she fought the urge to chug whatever drink she was supposed to be nursing alongside a captivated Riza.  Rebecca would often pretend to be engaged as she listened to atonal bass clarinet solos in songs that, despite being different, never failed to sound exactly the same. And her heart would mourn for a lyric or two to hold her attention, impart a lesson or otherwise take her mind off the ill-fitting pants worn by the haggard musicians on stage.

“Guess I could give jazz a shot,” Havoc interjected.

“Better you than me.”

They sat in relative silence for a time, watching the few comings and goings from the rundown building.  The structure was small, Havoc had noted, housing no more than six barebone apartments. Entrance required either a key or a buzz from an apartment’s occupant, and Rebecca could vouch for most the faces she’d observed over the years.  Old Mr. Granger struggled with his key for a few minutes, fitfully jabbing at the lock with trembling hands before help arrived in the form of… Riza Hawkeye.

At first glance, she looked ordinary, dressed smartly in a tan trenchcoat with her hair pinned back and secured close to her scalp.  However, a hint of makeup clung to tips of her eyelashes and stained her slender lips a dark shade of red. Standing in profile, the effect wasn’t lost on Rebecca, neither were the two suitcases clutched to her side nor the patent leather pumps accentuated by the dark line running up the back of her nylon pantyhose.

Gently, Jean started the car, uncannily pumping the clutch as if he was possessed by the ghost of Isaac Catalina.  Rebecca turned toward Jean while slipping on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and she felt the butterflies in her stomach surge when he flashed her a winning smile.  Caught up in the sensation, Rebecca almost missed Riza disappearing into the back a nondescript black car and speeding down the busy street. Thankfully, Jean’s eyes proved almost as sharp as they were piercing.

“Wherever she’s going, it ain’t the train station,” Havoc observed.

* * *

They traveled for over an hour and, come nightfall, ended up in Zimpelton, a residential suburb that was distinctly upper class.  The winding cobblestone streets made East City feel like a distant memory, being more reminiscent of Central with its abundance of amenities and the occasional mansion fenced in by manicured green hedges.  Even in the commercial district, each street was clean and sleek, lined with high-end restaurants and two-story retailers whose names were simultaneously foreign and vaguely familiar to Rebecca. Truly, Zimpelton was the type of place the young woman would never have expected thrifty Riza to frequent, and in comparison to elegant figures strolling up and down the sidewalks, Rebecca felt out of place and hopelessly underdressed.

Maintaining a three to four car gap, Jean followed Riza’s cab faithfully, unperturbed by the opulence surrounding him.  Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched as, finally, their target pulled into the pretty circular drive of an ornate hotel, and Riza emerged once more.  Only, if Rebecca hadn't known better, she would have never guessed this woman and her best friend were one in the same.

From their position across the street, Rebecca realized that Riza’s hair was no longer blonde but a striking shade of tawny brown, styled as a sleek bob that curled around her jawline.  Her trenchcoat hung limply over her arm to expose a black dress, high necked but tight, hugging the curves of her body from her neck to her knees. Despite the crisp autumn air, Riza’s shoulders were on full display.  She paid the driver handsomely and tipped a busboy to carry her luggage inside the gilded lobby.

The scene felt surreal.  The famed Hawk’s Eye, decked out in a sultry dress and sky-high heels without a weapon in sight.  Rough and tumble Lieutenant Hawkeye, paying scrawny busboys to carry her luggage. Frugal Riza, staying in a hotel with marble columns and pretty patterned wallpaper.  Rebecca pinched herself just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Should we follow her inside?” Rebecca asked timidly.  She’d never expected to go to such great lengths, but something inside of the wide-eyed woman was dying to follow this strange trail of breadcrumbs.

“I don’t think we can risk it,” Havoc opined, “and I’m willing to bet she isn’t staying in.”

And as luck would have it, Havoc was right.

Less than half an hour later, Riza emerged from the spinning turnstile.  Though her tight figure commanded attention as she crossed the street, the dulcet moonlight shrouded her facial features with alarming effectiveness.  Jean and Rebecca almost lost her twice but managed to follow on foot from a respectable distance. Their casual outfits remained covered by dark coats that blended into the night.

The walk was not long and soon Riza arrived at the roped entrance of a club bearing the name “Syncopation.”  Though tidy with windowsill boxes spilling tendrils of ivy, the stucco facade was nondescript, save the bouncer who manned the door with a heavy scowl.  The whole scene was illuminated by the hazy light of a single swan-necked lamp. Riza passed through the entrance with ease.  The robed opening closed definitively behind her seconds after she crossed the threshold.

“It’s an effing jazz club,” Rebecca hissed to her partner in crime.  “She’s come all this way to stay in a fancy hotel and spend an evening listening to jazz before her big, dangerous assignment.”

“Seems like it,” Jean agreed.  He hesitated before voicing his concerns in hushed tones.  “But why would she have lied about that to you of all people?  And while I can understand wanting to get dolled up to go out, why the expensive car service and the wig?  This is a hell of a lot of planning for a weekend away, and Hawkeye’s never been one to throw money around.  I don't think she makes that much more than I do, and there's no way in hell I could afford this.”

The glimpse of Riza’s scarlet bra strap thrust itself to the forefront of Rebecca’s imagination.  Truly, Riza could have worn it for her own satisfaction, but she also could have given up her guns and taken up tap dancing in an effort to hasten world peace.  Both possibilities were just about as likely.

“She has to be meeting someone,” Rebecca stressed.  “It’s the only explanation which makes sense. _This_ ,” she gestured inartfully to their hoity-toity surroundings, “isn't Riza’s scene.  We’ve got to get in there.”

Havoc grimaced and took in a breath of air through his clenched teeth.  “It’s a small club with a doorman, and in case you missed it, we’re a bit underdressed.”

“There’s got to be a back entrance for the staff,” Rebecca posed hopefully.

“And a court-martial waiting for us when we get caught,” Havoc retorted.

Rebecca's lips curled into a playful smirk despite the sliver of truth in her statement that gnawed at her pride.  “I’ll take responsibility if anything happens. I’m pretty sure I couldn't get fired or demoted if I actually tried.  Call it a perk of being well connected to people who are afraid to let you go anywhere.”

“If you're sure you’re up for it, I’m not opposed.”

Havoc regarded Rebecca for a moment with a serious expression that rooted her to the spot where she stood.  His blue eyes and blond brawn were only skin deep, it was true, but for a moment Rebecca allowed herself to marvel at the way his five o’clock shadow accentuated the subtle dimples in his cheeks.  Jean Havoc was a bastard, but concern looked as good on him as the dark jeans he’d chosen to wear for their stakeout. And if he didn't mind leading her into the belly of the beast, Rebecca would follow, if only to get another good look from behind.

“After you,” Rebecca directed with a nod.

* * *

It was easier than she thought to slip into the service entrance of the club and easier still to follow Havoc’s lead as he raided the well-marked uniform closet for a plain button-down shirt.  They changed in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the staff bathroom. Havoc’s chest stretched the limits of the polyester he donned, and Rebecca cinched the waist of her trenchcoat tightly. She rolled up her pant legs to create the illusion of a dress underneath.  It wasn't a perfect disguise, but even Havoc was pleased to admit they now looked the part of a happy couple looking for an evening of drinking, flirting and music.

Feigning drunkness, Jean sloppily exited the bathroom and asked a startled waitress for directions back to the bar.  The confused woman lead Jean and a giggling Rebecca back toward the main lounge, and the sultry music swelled as the small group turned a series of corners.  With a stiff smile, the waitress kindly stressed the importance of using the customer restrooms instead of the staff facilities. Jean responded convincingly, throwing excuses at the brunette and threading his fingers through Rebecca’s hand.

“Some asshat spilled a drink on my lady’s dress, and there was a line for the ladies room,” he said, catching his cohort’s gaze as he spoke.  “One of the waiters showed us to the staff restroom, but wouldn't ya know it, we got a little lost of the way back. That bartender of yours makes ‘em strong.”

“I understand, sir,” the waitress replied with a deferential nod of her head.  “I don’t think there’s a line anymore, so please use the regular facilities for the remainder of the evening.”  She turned apologetically to address Rebecca. “I am sorry about your dress.”

“Oh,” Rebecca exclaimed, laughing nervously, “it’s fine.  I mean, it’s nothing, really.”

The waitress pushed open the double doors leading to the main lounge, and Rebecca did her best to remain nonplussed by the revelation.  A dark den appeared in front of her, full of low, soft light which bathed the space in warm shades of amber and orange. Candlelit tables with dark linens and vases of blood red flowers dotted the floor in sets of four and two with tea lights that flickered like fireflies in the night.  A long mahogany bar stretched halfway across the wall next to the staff entrance, stocked with shelves of premium liquors, wine coolers and beer taps. The overhead pendant lights forged in the shape of stars directed Rebecca’s attention to the red velvet curtain of the stage where a pianist and a songstress held the collective attention of the room.

The music was smooth, slow and polished, so unlike the instrumental jazz numbers played by the bleary-eyed musicians of East City who improvised more than half of the music they made.  Onstage, the songbird, her dark hair pinned in natural waves, crooned a sad, alto melody to the rhythm of a skipped heartbeat. The pianist's fingers brushed delicately across the keys with shoulders hunched inward, and his eyes closed in surrender to the song itself.  Having little say in the matter, Rebecca allowed herself to be taken in by the music, and Jean guided her like a marionette to a dark seat at the bar.

For the second time that evening, he leaned in close to her.  Close enough for her to catch a hint of sandalwood cologne. Close enough for Rebecca to notice the ring of gold around the iris of his blue, blue eyes.  Close enough for Rebecca’s temperature to rise as she imagined running her thumb across the stubble on his chin, to feel its rough texture against the smooth pad of her thumb.

Jean slipped his hand around her waist, and his finger gripped the tightly-woven fabric of her trench coat with possessive purchase.  The young man’s head dipped downward, and Havoc’s mouth, so annoyingly provocative for no reason in particular, hovered near the brim of her ear.  Hot breath fanned on the side of Rebecca’s face, laced with minty toothpaste and the scent of tobacco.

“Stay close” Havoc purred.  “Public displays of affection make people less likely to stare.”

She nodded, wordlessly, and found her sharp tongue dull, listless and content to let the moment linger.  Jean tucked a lock of Rebecca’s hair behind her ear and leaned in as if to brush his lips against her cheek, but he never made contact.  Rebecca said nothing and used stunned silence as the first line of defense against the injustice of it all.  If they got out of this unscathed, she would either punch Havoc or kiss him. And knowing herself as she did, Rebecca admitted she might do both.

“Do you see Hawkeye?”  Jean asked, mouth hovering near her face in the shadow of the kiss-that-wasn’t.

Attempting to focus, Rebecca swallowed thickly and tried like hell to quiet the loud thumping of her tell-tale heart as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.  She knew Riza never sat near the stage if she could help it, and Rebecca’s gaze instinctively flitted to the back of the room, scanning a set of four u-shaped, brown-leather booths.  Two of the four held larger groups, the farthest from them was empty and the nearest held…

Rebecca’s heart stopped.

It was Riza.  Of that Rebecca Catalina was certain, and just as she had suspected, her best friend was not alone.  In fact, the first lieutenant in disguise lingered in the embrace of a man who needed no introduction.  Even cast in candlelight with his hair slicked back and a red rose pinned on his lapel, Rebecca knew those dark, almond-shaped eyes.  She knew the rounded slant of his clean-shaven jaw and the distinct angle of his lopsided smile. And when Roy Mustang lovingly tilted his adjunct’s chin upward and pressed his lips against hers with fervor, Rebecca understood how little she actually knew.

Theirs was not a gentle kiss; the protective caress of Roy’s hand on Riza’s cheek did not speak of something timid or new.  Riza’s lips moved desperately against Roy’s mouth, but their breaths came easily as one experienced liplock lead to another and another.  The world as far as they knew it looked to be no larger than the booth which shielding prying eyes from almost all sides. And within that supposedly safe sphere, Riza lowered her guard, pivoting in Roy’s embrace to slip her arms around his neck, to deepen a feeling forged in the stolen moments that those closest to them went out of their way to ignore.

Rebecca felt foolish that she hadn’t realized it sooner, and selfishly, an old longing turned like a knife in her gut.

“I see Hawkeye.  She’s with The Colonel,” Rebecca whispered in stunned disbelief.  Hardly accepting the words that left her own mouth, she rephrased. “Riza is kissing Roy Mustang.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

“I see Hawkeye.  She’s with The Colonel.”

Jean couldn't be certain what Rebecca had said.  He was too busy fighting the urge to brush his lips across her cheek, press his mouth against hers and bury his nose in the crook of her neck.  She smelled nice, neither fakely floral nor saccharine sweet, but fresh with a hint of warm vanilla. Havoc’s grip on Rebecca’s narrow waist tensed as he felt the thrum of her body quicken, and never one to be left behind, Jean’s pulse rose to the occasion.

Throughout the evening, he’d had to remind himself why he was there.  The answer was manifest but variable, depending on whether he was answering with his head or his heart. To the naked eye, Jean's motivation was to gather intel about Hawkeye, but whether blonde or brunette, Havoc found he’d lost his appetite.  And though he wasn't one for dwelling in the past, Jean suspected it had happened somewhere between all the proverbial shots fired back and forth at the gun range.

The line between love and loathing was thin, blurry and often indistinguishable in retrospect.  He hated the way Rebecca did foolish, reckless things for her friends and loved her for the unwavering stance she took amid moral ambiguity.  That tongue of hers was downright acidic; it could wear down the thickest callous, but when it stripped away all the contrived, unnecessary parts of a person, Havoc found that less was more.

The old saying still had meaning.  Things were very rarely as they first appeared, and Jean was no exception to the rule.  Rebecca’s first impression was wrong, and surely, she realized that Havoc was more than a pretty face.  Again, Jean asked himself why he’d decided to tag along on Rebecca’s ill-advised quest, and this time, the answer came from a different place, bolstered by the physical tells he recognized so well in strangers but struggled to place in those closest to him:  Uneasy stomach, sudden emotional shifts, flushed face and rushing pulse.

Jean liked Rebecca, and with any luck, she might feel the same.  However, this was not the moment for such revelations.

“Riza is kissing Roy Mustang,” Rebecca whispered.  Her voice trembled with emotion, pulling Havoc from his inner musings.

“She’s what?”  Uncomprehending, Jean faltered, struggling to process her words.

“Kissing your boss,  _ her _ boss.  Or maybe he’s kissing her,” Rebecca babbled.  “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. I think he initiated it, but still...  It’s…”

Rebecca’s cadence softened, and her voice faded away.  She didn’t have to finish her sentence for Jean to grasp her meaning.  There was only one word that could describe the scene she set. At least, from the perspective of a court-martial.

Havoc’s knee-jerk reaction to the news went unchecked.  The vertebra of his spine aligned and stiffened, drawn upward like a marionette with unnatural rigidity.  With a sharp intake of breath, his muscles contracted and shock ricocheted through Jean’s body. Nevertheless, he forcibly tabled his questions and willed himself to recall his training.  Sizing up the situation, Havoc presented himself with the two most likely scenarios, and neither gave him any modicum of comfort. They had to leave. The sooner, the better.

“We gotta get out of here,” he directed.

The second lieutenant rummaged through the pocket of his bomber jacket for a bill and some spare cenz to occupy the bartender while they made their escape.  With his hand still wrapped around the small of Rebecca’s waist, Havoc nudged her from the barstool as he tipped his blond head in the barkeep’s direction. The pair slipped past the kissing couple’s booth; their heads tilted downward to take advantage of the shadows.

Curiosity got the better of Havoc as they drew near, and he looked, against his better judgment, to confirm the lie he allowed himself to believe for far too long.  It was The Colonel. Indeed, Havoc doubted that he could have concealed his identity if he’d tried, and truth be told, Riza’s disguise hadn’t fared well under Mustang’s attentions.  The first lieutenant’s blonde hairline peeked from the edge of her wig as Roy’s thumb stroked the tender flesh beneath her earlobe and traced her jawline. The way Roy kissed Riza, with his eyes shut tight, answered the question his teammates had been too hesitant to dignify.

_ “Do you think she’s seeing anyone?” _ Jean’s own voice rang in his head.  He chuckled, read the room and answered the question for himself.

It was… complicated.

* * *

Dive bars were a rare find in Zimpelton, but like a bloodhound, Havoc had a nose for places featuring stiff booze, wizened reprobates and cheeky bartenders.  Jean and Rebecca silently sidled up to the bar, having shared no more than a dozen words in the aftermath of the big reveal. The young man’s fingertips tapped impatiently against the tacky residue on the wooden counter as he vied for eye contact with the aged bartender.  Smoke and the dated sounds of an old jukebox filled the air as the pair waited impatiently for their turn to order.

“Stray Dog on the rocks,” Havoc barked.  The young man reached into his pocket and snatched a cigarette as the bartender produced a small highball glass and started to pour the amber whisky over ice.  “Do you have a bigger cup for that?” Jean asked jokingly. He slipped the cigarette between his lips and cupped his hand around the tip to shield his lighter’s flame.  Wisps of smoke from the smoldering tip twisted as they rose and dissipated into the low, hazy light.

The old man’s response didn’t disappoint.  “Not if you want to show your lady friend a good time tonight,” he muttered gruffly with a nod in Rebecca’s direction.

Jean groaned, pushing the fresh mental image of The Colonel and his adjunct away for the hundredth time in less than twenty minutes.  He readied a quippy comeback, eager to dish as good as he had taken, but was surprised to hear a feminine chuckle from the woman standing at his side.

“Why do men always think they know what’s best for a woman?  Leave the bottle and bring us another glass,” she hummed playfully, sliding a generous banknote in the bartender’s direction. “Let  _ her _ worry about having a good time if you don’t mind.”

The aged bartender snatched the note from the counter and eyed it suspiciously, going as far as holding it up to the light.  With a curt nod, he pocketed the bill in exchange for a full bottle and a second glass. And as quickly as the old barkeep appeared, he left to service other customers.  Havoc looked toward Rebecca, to thank or compliment her on the clever exchange, but she shook her head and grabbed the glasses before he could speak. Jean followed with the bottle, admiring the sway of her hips with a hard swallow as she walked toward a dark booth in the corner.

They wasted no time.  Havoc slid in the booth and knocked back a third of his drink with gusto, hissing as it burned his parched throat.  “I’d never have taken you for a whisky drinker.”

Rebecca handily sampled the liquor without so much as flinching.  “I’m not, usually,” she admitted, tilting the glass between her palms as she watched the alcohol flow across, around and over the ice cubes, “but tonight is an exception for a lot of things.  I’m still trying to make sense of it, to figure out if it is what it looks like. And if it is, why didn’t I know? I don't even know how I’m gonna face her after all this, and none of that even touches our reporting obligation.  Some best friend, I am.”

“They didn't see us,” Jean said, injecting confidence into his voice.  “And, the way I see it, we can leave it at that. There are only two reasons why The Colonel and Hawkeye would do that.  The first is that someone ordered them to, like a sting or an undercover operation.”

“Unlikely given the timing of their temporary assignment,” Rebecca sighed.

Havoc grinned.  “But it is plausible, and that’s what keeps us from ever getting near door number two.”

Rebecca smiled at Havoc in return.  “And, hypothetically speaking, if I didn't believe they were on some sort of undercover mission, why do you think we found them in a compromising situation tonight?”

“Simple,” Jean retorted as he freshened his glass, “it’s because they wanted to.”

* * *

They drank their way through the modest bottle of Stray Dog whisky, as the conversation covered the usual ground in record time.  Rebecca grew up as a nomadic army brat, Havoc learned, and she was unapologetically proud of it. Living everywhere from Liore to North City, Catalina was filled to the brim with funny anecdotes about Amestris’s most distinguished officers.  By comparison, Havoc’s rural upbringing left something to be desired, but he told her his story all the same.

“I’ve lived in the East my whole life, except for the time I was at the academy,” Havoc explained.  “My great-grandparents opened a general store in a small town outside New Optain, and it’s been in the family for about 80 years now.  The way my grandmother tells it, the whole thing was a cover for her father-in-law’s smuggling, but the operation went straight by the time she married my grandfather.”

“Brothers or sisters?” Rebecca asked.  She blew a steady stream of smoke out the corner of her mouth, having bummed a cigarette off Jean a few minutes earlier.  They sat in the very back of the crescent moon booth, sharing the illumination of the flickering pendant light, and the more Havoc drank, the braver he felt.  Brave enough to admire the way Rebecca’s dark eyes looked up at him and to slip an arm around her shoulders. He grinned widely when she leaned into his embrace.

“One sister, Chloe,” he answered, clearing his throat.  “She’s 6 years younger than me. Just turned 22.”

“And what’s she up to these days?  College or the military, like you?”

Havoc’s smile faded.  “Neither,” he said guiltily.  “She stayed behind to help with the store.”

“You ever think about going back?” Becca queried, guiding the conversation back to a lighter topic.

Havoc chuckled, amazed by his companion’s intuitive nature.  “More and more all the time. Don’t get me wrong; I’m committed to The Colonel 100%, but there’ll be a day when I want to play a better role.  When that day comes, I’d like to run things my own way. Only, that’ll never happen with Hawkeye around. And I think we both know now that she’ll never leave Mustang’s side.”

Rebecca looked down into her drink as if contemplating whether the answer was at the bottom of the bottle.  “She’s my friend, Jean, and I keep asking myself how I could have missed it.”

“I worked beside them for years, Rebecca,” Havoc replied.  He dared to use her first name as she had used his. “We didn’t miss anything they wanted us to see.  Whatever’s going on with The Colonel and Hawkeye, we didn’t know because they didn’t want us to.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Havoc confirmed, more for himself than anyone else.  The young man grimaced as he considered his teammates and the lengths he’d subconsciously gone to remain blissfully unaware.  Like a deer in his sights or a fish on the end of his line, Jean saw people best from a distance, where emotions and history were held at arm’s length.  When seated next to the elephant in the office, he had blinded himself, maintaining the bright, happy fantasy and believing - for their sake - that they were simply old friends.

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Rebecca added, but the softness of her features told Havoc that she wasn’t sorry, not in the way she’d suggested.  “You were expecting advice for dating my best friend, but after seeing that, I think the only advice I can offer is ‘don’t.’ Shows you how much I knew to begin with.”

The arm wrapped carelessly around Rebecca’s shoulders curled on its own accord, but Jean restrained himself.  He waited for another cue to add to the bevy of signs he’d been collecting since before they left East City. Touches that lingered, and suggestive comments that could have been taken any number of ways.  Jean vividly recalled the moment she’d stolen the cigarette from between his lips, not 15 minutes prior. Still, having been on this precipice often - too often, truth be told - he waited for her to make the first move.

“I didn’t come because I needed the advice,” he stated plainly.  “I came tonight because spending time with you sounded like fun.”

Rebecca’s lashes fluttered, her face turned upward as she leaned into his embrace.  “So you’re not disappointed that Riza is unavailable.”

Jean shifted in his seat to better regard her dark eyes and burgundy lips.  “I put Riza on a pedestal. I do that more than I’d like to admit. I assume things about the women I like instead of getting to know them.  The person I liked wasn't Riza, not really. That girl was smoke and mirrors, a person I made up. Not like you.”

“Not like me, how?” Becca asked, blushing furiously when Jean’s thumb traced the curve of her cheek.

“I don’t think I could imagine you if I tried.  You’re clever, headstrong and feisty,” he observed.  “You don’t follow the rules just because someone told you to; you make your own way.  And I don’t think you know how to pull your punches.”

“And you like that?”

“I do.  Not at first, I admit, but now...”  Havoc hummed his approval, glancing down her sumptuous figure.  “I really, really like that. I like you.”

At that, Rebecca pounced, frat regs be damned.  She pulled Jean down by the collar of his jacket and grinned madly when his lips caught hers in a kiss they’d been dancing around for hours.  Maybe even days. Becca’s hands moved with conviction, fingertips sweeping over Jean’s broad shoulders and coming to rest on his sculpted bicep.  She hummed appreciatively as their bodies pressed together, and Havoc also struggled to contain a growl that vibrated dangerously in the back of his throat.  

Not a moment too soon, he allowed his arm to slink down her shoulders and arms, seeking purchase at small of her waist.  Their lips moved in time against one another, sending shockwaves straight down Jean’s spine, but he obliged the gentleman within to rise above his lust if only to better learn what made Rebecca tick.  Enchanted by her charms, Jean didn’t care that the locals were staring or that the old bartender had shaken his head with a gratuitous groan. The bottle of Stray Dog was still half full, but Jean found that he was drunk on her.  And knowing that he, indeed, wanted to show Rebecca a good time (as the barkeep had foretold), Havoc vowed not to drink another drop and instead relished the matching taste of Rebecca’s tongue.

She pulled back for a moment, no longer, and spoke in a breathy tone that made his head spin.  “Don’t put me on that pedestal,” she warned playfully, face flushed and lips red from delicious friction.

Havoc smirked in response.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

The next four weeks gave Jean little quarter.  Between the job and Rebecca, he stayed busy, delegating assignments, coordinating three different investigations and setting aside enough time to stop by Grumman’s chambers for closed-door meetings with the old man’s executive assistant.  Trudy didn’t mind so long as they kept the noise down, and Jean made certain no one could accuse him of slacking off. Whatever the job, whether business or pleasure, he aimed to please.

And while it was true that Team Mustang was a well-oiled machine, there was always room for improvement in Havoc’s opinion.  The second lieutenant in command set a breakneck pace, keeping his officers busy, but rarely did he ask his men to burn the midnight oil.  For this alone, the team was appreciative.

The paperwork was, as it always had been, excessive.  Nevertheless, Jean embraced the workaround presented by their warrant officer’s eidetic memory.  Falman loved paper pushing, and unlike Hawkeye who was a consummate perfectionist, Jean trusted Vato enough to stay out of his way.  He signed on the dotted line without reading a word, and his team moved on to the next task.

Breda handled the pre and post op memoranda as well as the mission briefings.  He had an eye for detail that was unparalleled; something Mustang should have put more stock in during official dealings.  Unsurprisingly, Fuery excelled with all manner of communication, including surveillance. But given the right encouragement, the kid’s unassuming demeanor could also sell ice to a Briggsman.  Naturally, he was in charge of negotiations.

As for Jean, he took up the mantle of a jack of all trades and filled the large shoes left by the Hawk’s Eye and Mustang better than most could have imagined.  In doing so, Havoc came into his own, garnering positive feedback from several department heads who hadn't known his name before. Nevertheless, as all good things must, Jean knew the end would come, and he almost resented the happy news handed down from Central Command on a busy Wednesday morning.

“They caught McDougal last night!” Fuery cheerfully announced, carefully pulling his new headphones down to rest around his neck.

The office’s collective attention snapped in young master sergeant’s direction.  “Any news of The Colonel and Hawkeye?” Breda asked.

“Nothing on the Lieutenant specifically, which I suppose is good news, but they’re crediting The Colonel with bringing McDougal down.”

“Bringing him down?” Falman repeated.  He considered the words carefully as if trying to make sense of the way the fell from his lips.  “Does that mean the Freezing Alchemist is, you know, gone?”

Fuery solemnly nodded in response.  “Think so.”

The room fell silent as each member of the team considered the events that had likely transpired.  The Colonel wasn’t gifted with guns, not like Havoc or Hawkeye, but his alchemical firepower was the equal of an entire platoon.  Mustang used his talents sparingly, unlike the Fullmetal kid who flaunted his freewheeling abilities with effortless disregard. Equivalent exchange was a bedrock concept of alchemy, a principle Havoc neither knew nor cared to learn about, especially after seeing the toll Mustang’s abilities took every time he slipped on those familiar white gloves.

“There’ll be loose ends to tie up in Central,” Havoc announced.  “We’ll wait for them to make contact and proceed as planned until they return.  We still have a job to do, guys. The Colonel put you under my command until his return, and I expect your best effort until he and Hawkeye come barreling through that door. Understood?”

Havoc schooled his own disappointment as he searched the faces of his team for traces of emotion.  Sure enough, Falman looked relieved, likely craving the extra layer of supervision Hawkeye provided.  Fuery, who performed more or less the same function under either leader, seemed as characteristically enraptured by his machines as ever.  But Breda looked at Havoc sans his usual surliness. The rotund lieutenant approached Jean and leaned against the top drawer of Havoc’s borrowed desk.  Heymans lowered his voice and spoke plainly.

“You knew they’d come back, Jean,” he said softly, “but I gotta admit, you look good in that chair.  Suits you, if you ask me.”

Havoc scoffed.  “No need to butter me up now, Heymans.  As soon as The Colonel returns, I’ll be sitting next to you, right back where I started.”

“You will,” Breda agreed, “but seeing you lead like you did makes me wonder for how long.”  Heymans shifted closer for a moment, and his tone was serious, the likes of which Jean had rarely heard.  “All I’m saying is that you did a hell of a job, and when the day comes that you decide to start up your own operation, I’m all in, military or not.  Keep that in mind, will you?”

Without waiting for Jean’s response, Breda went back to his crowded workstation and set about completing the last of the prep work his commanding officer had assigned.  Havoc set his mind to the same task but found his attention wanting. For what he suspected was the last time for the foreseeable future, he swiveled around to look out the window and regarded Eastern Command’s parade grounds in all its outdated splendor.

Soldiers drenched in Amestrian blue high-stepped in time to the beat of a crisp snare drum with rifled postured perfectly on their shoulders.  The military barracks were just visible in the distance, and behind that were fields of green, interspersed with austere country houses and a long, winding road leading straight into the heart of town.  East City was a peculiar place, emblematic of the feast and famine that was prevalent throughout the Eastern sector. As the buffer zone between Ishval and Central City, it was as backwater as could be but simultaneously fortified down to its core.

For the first time in a long time, Havoc considered his standing.  He thought about his small, lonely apartment and the woman who’d made him so happy during the last month of his residency.  He pondered the frat regs and Heymans’s impromptu declaration. Jean wondered how much longer the dam would hold, personally and professionally, and without knowing why, he resolved to follow The Colonel as far as he could, even as he sensed choppy waters on the forecast.

With Hawkeye around, following was the most he could do, if only to watch their backs.

* * *

Jean liked the way she played with his hair.  He liked the wrinkled look of Rebecca’s sheets pooled around their bodies and the pressure of her head against his chest.  The drinks from dinner made his limbs feel heavy, and their earlier exertions sated his body right down to his bones. He knew that he was happy when they were together, and the ironic timing of it all made the lieutenant crave another cigarette to dull the ache that swelled in his chest.

So this was what it felt like.

_ “Dump her,” _ Mustang had said, and the whole team had chuckled in a dismissive, good-natured manner.  Because, of course, Havoc would do as he was told. And, of course, he wasn't serious about whoever he’d been seeing.  Jean hadn’t so much as mentioned her around the office until…

Well, he couldn’t think about that, not when she was still so warm and pliant in his arms.  

He hadn’t meant for things to get serious with Rebecca, and for what it was worth, he suspected she hadn’t intended it either.  The fraternization regulations were unclear at best about situations like the one he found himself in. Regardless, there’d be hell to pay on principle alone.  Jean knew that, and he’d spilled his guts to the one person whose sharp eyes had noticed his struggle when The Colonel handed down his transfer orders.

_ “It’s not just some girl, Riza,” _ Jean had all but sneered when she’d pulled him aside.   _ “It’s Rebecca.  Your Becca. My Becca.  She is my girlfriend. I can't just break up with her.” _

The look in Riza’s eyes had been cold and distant, reminiscent of the ruthless sniper that dwelled within her.   _ “How long has this been going on?” _

_ “It started when you left for Central.  I didn’t expect-” _

_ "End it quickly, Havoc.  End it before anyone else finds out.” _

Easier said than done.

Rebecca didn’t even mind if he smoked so long as he shared the cigarette.  That was just one example of how she accepted him and bettered his faults without changing a thing.  Havoc snuffed what little remained of his second cigarette in the crystal ashtray on Rebecca's nightstand.  Once again, he resolved to tell her what he meant to say before dinner had evolved into dessert, and Havoc reminded himself that he knew how to do this part.  He’d done it before with neither trial nor tribulation. Yet, even as he summoned the self-deprecating words to soften the blow, his arms gathered her up and drew her close for another make-out session.

Riza’s tough advice thrust itself to the forefront.

_ "Trust me when I say breaking up for the best,”  _ Riza had stressed with every caring fiber in her being.  _ “Even if we weren’t transferring, there’s the frat regs to think about.  You two may not be bound by them now, but you’re are going places. The closer you get to the top, the more difficult life becomes.  You can’t want that for her.” _

_ "You’re one to talk, Lieutenant,”  _ Havoc had sneered _.  “I know about you.  You and… him.” _  Jean had stopped short of saying the damning name, but given the fearful look on Riza’s face, he had known his aim was true.  _ “And if you can keep it secret, so can we.” _

Hawkeye’s stern face had melted under the scrutiny, and for a moment, Havoc had observed fear and ire, the likes of which had shaken him to his core.  But Riza had recovered instantaneously, smoothing her wool uniform and glancing around for good measure. Once she was sure they were alone, her demeanor had shifted.

_ “He sends me flowers,” _ she had said simply, but sadly.   _ “Did you know that?  Most days I have to pretend I don’t even own a vase.  And flowers don’t make up for the things people say about his dates; they don’t make my bed feel any less empty.  And when we’re really lucky, we wear ridiculous disguises and travel an hour out of our way to hold hands while we look over our shoulders and pray that no one sees us.  Now ask yourself, is that what you want? Is that what you want for Rebecca?” _

She had paused, and the effect hadn't been lost on Jean.

_ “Sometimes, it’s cruel to be kind, Jean.  End it before you get in too deep, before you end up like me.” _

Jean pulled back and met Rebecca’s heavy-lidded gaze.  The way she looked at him, like she knew what he was going to say, broke his heart.  Havoc bit back the tight feeling in his chest and told himself it was for the best, not that he believed it one bit.

“Becca, we need to talk.”

Jean Havoc was unlucky in love.  He was twenty-eight with broad shoulders and a muscular build.  He was a country boy second lieutenant who hated and admired his boss in equal measure.  And above all, he swore that the next woman he dated wouldn’t dig her manicured claws so far into his heart so quickly.  It hurt too much when he had to rip them out.

And true to his vow, she didn’t break his heart.  Solaris merely injured his spinal cord.

Jean Havoc began to reconsider his dating strategy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you guys jump on over to [my tumblr](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/) to protest my treatment of Havoc, read the epilogue (which should be posted by the time you finish reading Chapter 7). This is the original ending I envisioned, but I found myself unable to leave Jean like this.


	8. Epilogue

It was a long way down from Central City, from an able-bodied second lieutenant to a cripple shopkeeper in a small town outside New Optain.  Jean manned the old register in his family’s general store, making change and charging credit accounts like he’d been doing since he was old enough to count.  But the lonely silences no longer held daydreams of his glorious future, only shadows of Havoc’s past and reminders of everything he’d missed at home while he’d been chasing dreams and women.

Chloe wasn’t so little anymore.  Jean hated to admit it, but the truth came calling every day around 4:10 p.m.  Luc Richard came from good stock, or so the rest of the family had assured Jean time and time again when he came by to pick Chloe up for dances and dates.  The young man drank sparingly and worked hard on his parents’ farm. All 6’2” of his burly, tanned build was respectful to a fault; Luc carried groceries for elderly patrons and rarely showed up without a bouquet of wild bluebonnets for Chloe.

Jean would have liked Luc if he wasn't duty bound to hate him on principle alone.  And though Chole was kept in the dark, Jean had it on good authority that the engagement was coming any day now.  The old fashioned suitor had asked Havoc’s parents for their blessing earlier that week, wringing a straw hat between his hands.  Jean had rolled his eyes at the lily-livered sight of lovestruck Luc, but the rest of the Havoc clan had agreed quickly, without requesting the references Jean had suggested.

It had been a joke.  Mostly. Though Jean would never forget the pair of eyes his mother had shot him when Luc’s back was turned.

“You might think about doing the same,” she had suggested over dinner that night.  “Find someone who makes you happy; find something that you like to do. You never know about your legs.  They’re making advances in automail every day. I’ll even let you off the hook for grandkids as I suspect Chloe and Luc will have that well in hand.”

Jean hadn’t responded well to that, and no amount of buttermilk biscuits and gravy could soothe his pride in the aftermath.  However, the truth ran deeper than his damaged legs, wasting away underneath a thick blanket. Rather, it was simply that when he thought about what he wanted out of life, he remembered those four weeks in East City.  The work had made Jean feel useful, and Rebecca had made him happy, happier than he could ever remember.

At that moment, a gentle gust of wind blew through the shotgun style store, catching the edge of Chloe’s skirt as she bid Jean goodbye.  The young blonde told her brother not to wait up with a cringe-worthy wink. Havoc groaned and added death by arsenic poisoning to the ever-growing list of ways Luc Richard might meet his end if ever he broke Chloe’s heart.  Havoc’s current options added up to 47, which wasn’t bad for an ex-military cripple without easy access to the long-range weapons he preferred.

The bell above the entryway tinkled, and heavy footsteps sounded against the shop’s wooden floor.  “Be with you in a minute,” Havoc called over his shoulder as he restocked a few items on the lower shelves and maneuvered the wheels of his chair to face his latest customer.  When he saw her, his heart almost jumped clear from his chest.

“Reb- Lieutenant Catalina.”

She looked good.  That was his first thought.  Rebecca wore the same dark trench coat she had donned during their fateful surveillance in Zimpelton with a pair of large sunglasses and her hair secured in its customary way.  Despite the tenor of their last meeting, Becca’s satisfied smirk reminded him of happier times, of the way he used to roll his hips into hers while “lunching” in her private office.  She hadn’t changed one bit, and Havoc found himself unable to say the same.

“She’s prettier than you said,” Rebecca noted, gesturing to the door his sister had just exited.  “That’s Chloe, I presume, but you never told me she was dating.”

“She’s _engaged_ now,” he stressed, “or she will be once her boyfriend gets the courage to ask.  Not that I approve.”

“Of course not,” she chuckled.  “He’s a good guy though, right?”

Havoc sighed.  “The best, as my luck would have it.  Not a bone in his body to hate, though I keep looking.”  Jean glanced down at the neat needlework covering his legs and adjusted his blankets.  “I’d ask if you were just passing through, but I think there are better places to stop.  Did Trudy give you the address?”

“Yeah,” Becca breathed, smiling guiltily.  “She got it off your discharge paperwork and passed it along just in case I ever wanted to look you up.  I’d say she sends her regards, but there have been some changes in the East since you left.”

“Not Trudy!” Jean exclaimed with a trace of skepticism.  He wheeled over to a table near the back of the store and gestured toward a chair for Rebecca.  “She finally retired and left the old man to fend for himself.”

“More like quit,” Becca explained as she took a seat near Jean.  “Something about General Grumman borrowing her clothes or something strange like that.”

“Seems like there were a lot of people violating the frat regs,” he added with playful intonation.

“I wouldn’t put it past those two,” Rebecca responded, “but I’ve also come with a business proposition.  You told me once that this place used to specialize in, uh, unofficial trade, and I was wondering if you’d like to get back in the game.”  At that, Rebecca lowered her voice and leaned in close. Close enough for him to catch the fresh scent of her perfume. Close enough that he could have touched her if only he’d tried.

“I don’t have to tell you there’s something wrong with the military, Jean.  You know that better than anyone. The word from Grumman is that it’s rotten to the core, and it’s going to come to blows.”

“A coup?”  Jean asked ominously.

“Yeah.  The East is with Mustang, and there’s talk about an alliance with Briggs, but Mustang’s gonna need weapons, Jean.  Clean weapons that don’t implicate Eastern Command if this all goes south.”

Jean paused, pulling an old map from the table drawer and flattening it out to regard the smuggler’s route detailed in his great-grandfather’s hand.  It would be dangerous, Havoc knew, but his wheels turned faster and faster with each revolution, igniting a fire that had suffered in the wake of his injury.  When Jean looked back to Rebecca, there was a familiar, devil-may-care glint in his blue eyes and a determined set to his strong jawline.

“And where do you stand in all this?” Jean voiced.

Rebecca didn’t hesitate.  “With Riza. I don’t have to know the full score to believe that she's doing the right thing, and I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.  I’m turning in my resignation a few days before everything goes down, and I intend to fight with her when the time comes. Funny, I finally realized that military life doesn’t suit me.”

“I won't argue with you there,” he quipped.  “The pension is shit.”

Rebecca laughed, really laughed, and Jean watched as her face lit up for the first time since she’d arrived.  He missed the sound of her voice and the heavy walk of a woman who was used to wearing combat boots. Havoc considered the lonely silence of the store and how he’d liked to fill it with her off-key humming.  The whole scenario was such a tease, having ambition and love back within his grasp at the very moment he thought he’d lost it all.

“And Riza…” Rebecca started.  Her voice faltered, and her hand reached out for Jean’s.  His digits felt warm in her grasp. Agonizingly so. “She mentioned something when I visited her in Central a while ago, back when you were still in the hospital.  I should’ve come to visit, I know, but it was too soon. I was still mad at you when you got hurt.”

“Not your fault, babe,” Jean interrupted.  “If anything it was mine. I broke up with you and let my guard down.”

“You know, the way Riza tells it, it’s her fault,” Becca stated, eyes locked with Jean.  She came closer and poised her spare hand on the arm of Havoc’s wheelchair. “Riza said she told you to break up with me, thought it would be better for both of us if we just moved on.  But now she believes we’re still in love with each other, that maybe we had something worth the risk. What do you think about that?”

Jean swallowed hard and thanked his lucky stars that the formidable Lieutenant Hawkeye was truly a romantic at heart.  He’d never gotten over Rebecca and hadn’t bothered to hide his regret, least of all when he realized he’d never walk again.  

“I think Riza’s right, as usual,” Havoc answered.  Still, the bitter truth stirred in his throat. “But I’d never want to tie you down Becca.  Not with me like I am now.”

The young woman looked on the brink of tears as she moved gingerly to sit in Jean’s lap, closing the distance between them and placing a tender kiss on his scruffy cheek.  “Let me worry about what I want,” she said happily. “And seeing as I’m suddenly out of work, I wanted to ask if there are any openings here. Seems like a nice place where a person could put down some roots, might even be some excitement from time to time.”

“I think I could find a place for you.”  Havoc didn't have to look far. It was right there, in his arms.

“And, just so I know going in, are there any rules about sleeping with one’s boss?”  She battled her eyelashes when she asked the question as if she wasn’t running her hands up and down his arm, caressing the stubble on his jawline or nibbling his earlobe.

“Oh no.  Around here, we encourage it.  For morale.”

Rebecca hummed her approval, and Jean wrapped his arms around her figure.  “When can I start?” she said coyly, like it was more a matter of time than a question.  And he knew the answer straight away. Havoc readied himself to say the words he should have said on that night in East City.  This time, he’d get it right.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked, somewhat shyly.  Jean couldn't wait to introduce her to everyone, even Luc.  Maybe Luc.

 

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it. THE END! 
> 
> I'm thrilled to have finished something. And I own a huge thank you to [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos) for encouraging me to pursue this crazy idea and beta-ing this work. This fic would not have been written without her, and I was thrilled and humbled by the response.
> 
> I wish I could convey how much I appreciate all the likes, reblogs, kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and comments left by everyone, but words fail me. Thank you! And, of course, feel free to drop me an ask on my [tumblr, flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions, comments or just want to say hi.
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
